


Unwritten

by bradleymartin



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Eventual Smut, Gray-asexual/homoromantic Raphael, Jealous Raphael, M/M, No Book Spoilers, Oblivious Simon, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s01e13 Morning Star, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Vampire Politics, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bradleymartin/pseuds/bradleymartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written on every person's arm is the first words their soulmate will speak to them after turning eighteen. Simon was too busy getting kidnapped to realize that his were spoken by Raphael — who would strongly prefer to keep him from finding out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indolence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the soulmate AU I've been dying to write! 
> 
> It's narrated from a point shortly after the events of 1x13. The story will eventually reach that point and then go beyond it.
> 
> This is only TV show compliant.
> 
> This fic is now being translated into Russian [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5075274/13085013).

_Raphael_

I became desensitized to it, after a while. Maybe when I was fifteen or twenty or even my first decade as a vampire, I could have look at the mark on my left forearm with some degree of hope — or, to be more honest, passive interest. 

The marks are the first words your soulmate will speak to you after you turn eighteen, tattooed onto your skin from the moment of your birth. Some people meet their soulmate before they turn eighteen so the words could just be part of an ordinary conversation, but for others — like me — they might be the first words your soulmate ever says to you. _Soulmarks_ , I heard people say so often that the word itself eventually made me feel like ants were crawling on my skin. I’m a little more desensitized now. Lately, I’ve just been angry.

Sex holds little value to me, and human interaction of any kind only slightly more, so it wasn’t a major concern — and less and less as my mortal years came and went, even impossibly less after my so-called death.

The thing about being immortal is that you care about a lot less.

Now that I was hovering somewhere around eighty — which admittedly was young for the undead — the little words on my arms were nothing other than an annoyance, a promise that was not only unfulfilled but equally unwelcome. I didn’t like the idea of having a soulmate. On a good day, maybe I could admit that on the most theoretical basis, the idea was somewhat romantic — if nothing else, the words _soulmark_ and _soulmate_ could twist themselves around in my head and dress themselves up that way.

My earliest memory of my soulmark is my mother looking at them with her brow furrowed. They were just scribbles to me, then, before I could read. I learned later that the mark on her arm was _Te amo_. I vacillate even now between finding that endearing or disgusting. When I was finally old enough to read my own, I didn’t know what to do with it. I wore long sleeves as often as possible. Even though only blood relations can read soulmarks until you and your soulmate have spoken the words to each other — and even after, only your soulmate can — I didn’t want to see them. Even if sometimes I would read it with some amount of interest and wonder if I would ever meet the man speaking those words — being sure of at least that particular detail — nothing could make sense of it.

Sometimes I wondered idly if my soulmate was an idiot. Sometimes I wondered if it was nothing more than a cosmic joke and I didn’t actually have a soulmate. As time wore on, I adopted that notion as fact for weeks, even years, at a time, my resolve only breaking on a few occasions. Sometimes my eyes would skitter over the letters and the possibilities would rush into my brain before I could stop them. In 2008 I saw a movie poster and froze for a full three seconds before carrying on into the nighttime. I hated myself after that, especially when I wondered how long a person could feasibly make a movie reference for. I still heard people talk about _Gone With the Wind_ and that movie was almost as old as I was. So I once again gave up without even an attempt to try to find something to hope for.

If surprise can be ambivalent, that’s how it felt when I heard him speak those words to me: “Oh my god, please don’t hurt me — this is just like in _Taken_ , except my dad is dead and can’t save me.”

Those inane words, finally said aloud. They didn’t sound any better that way.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel at that moment. Connection, hope, love — some word with a grand concept that could theoretically move even the deadest of hearts. I felt none of the above. Resignation, perhaps, without even the distinction of being bitter.

I sighed. “Please stop talking."

* * *

_Simon_

I wanted it to be Clary.

I wore short sleeves as often as possible so I could stare at the words: _Please stop talking_. It was like magic, like every wonderful story I had ever read or heard, only better. Fate — the whole fate of my whole fucking world, scratched out into a few concise scribbles. I heard some people weren’t happy with them, some people covered them up, but how could anything be better? All I wanted to do was stare. I wished I could breathe them in, devour them with all of my senses. I wished I could remember every loop perfectly so that I could trace them on the insides of my eyelids when I would try to fall asleep at night, and then they could be the first thing I would see when I woke up, without even needing to open my eyes. They were a promise that could never be broken the way the stars could never be wrong; it was a warm blanket every time I felt cold.

Sometimes I would laugh when I looked at it; how many times and how many people had said that to me over the course of my life? I thought it was funny, and I was convinced I must have a great rapport with my soulmate, for them to make such a request. I could hear the tone of my soulmate saying it: a half-sigh half-laugh, friendly, playfully frustrated, a joke worn down not old and tired but soft and familiar.

Yeah, I was convinced it was her.

I knew it would be Clary saying it on my eighteenth birthday. Sometimes I would try to get her to tell me what was on her arm, but that was greatly taboo and she never told. On good days, I was convinced we were soulmates. On bad days, I wondered why she didn’t seem to be as sure. A few times I asked her why she didn’t seem more concerned about it.

“It’s a soulmate, Simon,” she said, smiling in a way that made her look older, “it’s _fate_ , what’s the point of freaking out now?”

I guess maybe I was always the one who wished I could chase fate down.

My eighteenth birthday came and went; her first words to me were _happy birthday_ , and I was embarrassed when I cried that night. I spent the next week trying to find a loophole, wondering if the exact hour of my birth was relevant, or if maybe text messages counted. After a few days it occurred to me that my birth certificate might be wrong. So I filtered through at least a thousand text messages, tried to remember every word we’d spoken to each other, rifled through old emails, and read way too many articles about babies getting switched at birth at the hospital. But she somehow hadn’t told me to stop talking. At the time, I wished that I had talked more.

So I never could’ve expected that when I heard _him_ speak those three words, they wouldn’t even register. Of course, I never would’ve expected that I would be in the process of getting kidnapped and he would be one of my captors. So I think I have an excuse. Still, I kind of wish I could’ve been there for it. Maybe I would’ve felt some sort of red string of fate snap us together. Maybe it would’ve felt like seeing a whole new color I’d just been blind to my whole life. Maybe his voice would’ve thrown goosebumps all over my skin — assuming they weren’t already there because of the whole getting-kidnapped-and-maybe-murdered thing.

That’s the kind of thing a guy wants to be able to talk about for all of his immortal life: The moment when the world rights itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my best friend and beta, Hannah.
> 
> If you're into Shadowhunters and hearing people talk about it, Hannah and I have a podcast! We would love anyone to listen and talk to us! [Find us on iTunes!](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2) Or [Spreaker (If you aren't about iTunes)](https://www.spreaker.com/show/shadowcasterss-show). Plus come hang out with us on [Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ).


	2. Foresight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All lines of dialogue are from 1x03 and 1x05. It's honestly amazing how perfect the show's dialogue is for this fic.

_Raphael_

I was just trying to prevent a war.

I missed the time when a statement like that was either hyperbolic or melodramatic. That day, it was simply the truth.

He begged me — he pled; it was annoying. His voice cracked a pitch higher and higher until it was just a scared squeak despite the fact that I was approaching with such forced calm. “You don’t need me!” he exclaimed — truer words never spoken — though even then I realized that he was never the best negotiator. Accountant, he had said — certainly not lawyer. Nothing important, mundane words for the most mundane of them all.

“On the contrary, I do,” I said, lunging at him. He screamed, and for just a second, I understood Camille’s pastime. As quickly as I felt the emotion, it dissipated. She got bored because nothing could amuse her long enough; I got bored because nothing could amuse me _deeply_ enough.

Even when I took him to Camille, he had a few pinpoints of not annoying me, but they burned in and out quickly. The constant chatter had its moments, the fidgeting not so much. Even throwing the knife at me — that showed spirit. I laughed until I realized he had ruined my jacket.

She wanted him as a plaything; she wanted _everything_ as a plaything. He didn’t glance in my direction when she was around, and why would he? She was nothing to me but I wasn’t blind to what someone like him could see in someone like her.

Something about it stung me.

_Amusing_ , she said. Maybe it could be to her. She’d always needed so little reason to break the Accords; I couldn’t help but wonder if she truly wanted the Mortal Cup, or if she just wanted to distract herself from how bored she was. Maybe there were no consequences when you were her age, or maybe nothing mattered enough to even be considered a consequence.

Later, he stood there, talking. Always talking — that’s never changed. She froze him, and he stood there like a statue. He looked like a caricature of a human being — those huge glasses and bushy eyebrows and the face that was no different than a million other faces I’d seen over the past decades. His looks were only notable by how easily my eyes could’ve flitted right past him if he hadn’t spoken those exasperating words to me.

“Camille, _him_?” I argued. She smiled as she always did; I felt condescension coming off of her as I always did —casual, amused, infuriating during the times I had the energy to be infuriated. She touched his hair, maybe his arm. There was no flash of jealousy in me, just a long thought about whether that was the correct emotion to feel. When she touched him, I could almost see it. The unkempt, unsophisticated attractiveness. I looked at him, trying to be impartial, as he stood frozen by her spell. He was unremarkable, even pedestrian, but perhaps it was just easier for me to pretend that he was completely without merit. It’s easy to do that now; it makes him easier to forget; I wish I could.

-

I could distinguish the exact second blood spilled out of his body. I didn’t even know I would be able to recognize it until it happened. After all, I had been in his vicinity for no more than an hour — just a simple act of kidnapping followed by transportation. But for an instant, a wave of possessiveness washed over me. I chuckled to myself, knowing how the world would look at my actions and call it the result of finally being near my soulmate. But I knew it was nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. No, even less than that. Just a conditioned response. I only felt the echo of empathy because I had been told to care.

I breathed in the air again, and his smell was nothing more than an aftertaste. The taste was probably nothing more than adequate. Maintaining control wasn’t difficult; it was only these surprises that were making me falter.

Camille played.

I’ve heard from multiple sources that once you’re old enough, everything looks like a game. The world is a giant chessboard and you’re the only one who knows how to move the pieces. I’m not that old yet; the world might look like a game board but I’m a piece that isn’t even sentient enough to know what game it belongs to. I always tried to reason my way through their games, but maybe there truly is no substitute for experience.

Camille had tried playing with me before realizing almost immediately that she couldn’t appeal to me sexually or emotionally. My mundane soulmate would be easier for her. He had been easy to capture, easy to subdue, easy to dislike. He had thrown a knife at me and I had laughed. Some might appreciate his fighting spirit; out here in the darkness before the dawn, I couldn’t help but note his lack of creativity.

I went out into the night. It was easier in the clean air to think about the best way to ensure the Accords were repaired; Camille was risking our race so that she might have a midnight snack.

There was nothing on her left arm, she’d told me. She was probably lying. I had been a little jealous in the single instant I believed her; I looked back towards the hotel as I pulled up my sleeve just enough to see the last few letters — _save me_ — and I felt another pang of envy. Would a blank arm be full of possibility or nothing but a prediction of your demise?

Both seemed passable. Both seemed better than _this_.

The solution came to me quickly, so I headed back into DuMort. The mundane would be freed because my people wouldn't be sentenced to die that night.

-

It was easy to talk her out of leaving; you couldn’t live hundreds of years without a highly developed sense of self-preservation. She bolted, and I wished I could do the same. How many years had I spent cleaning up after her? It felt a little different this time — everything I’d ever been told would’ve led me to believe that this mundane should be _my_ mess, _my_ choice, _my_ sin.

He tried to escape, so I used a knife. I might have laughed; I can’t remember now. He struggled as much as he could with a knife at his throat and my hand holding the back of his head still. It was that conditioned response again, feeling him pressed against me — I felt something because I was supposed to, I felt every strand of his hair under my fingertips because I was supposed to, I heard every breathe and felt every movement because I was _supposed_ to.

“Don’t move, I know you wanna find out how this story ends,” I said, not knowing where such a theatrical line came from. Camille was rubbing off on me. If she’s anything to go by, after so many centuries it seems as though there’s nothing left to be but theatrical. I wasn’t old enough yet to have fallen to that level.

The words meant nothing to him, and I guess they meant just as much of nothing to me. When his friends busted in — killing so many of my men without remorse, even though if they’d just waiting a little bit longer, the mundane would’ve been returned to them and no blood would have needed to be spilled. That’s how Shadowhunters always are — mortal, reckless, not seeing that time solves problems if you’re patient enough to let it.

“I’ve had more than enough of your friend for one day, I’d love to cut his throat.” Dramatic, or pragmatic because it sped up the process? I was fine either way; it was a little bit fun either way; Camille wasn’t the only one who got to have fun. I couldn’t help but look forward to getting rid of him, knowing that for the rest of my eternal life, this night could fall into a distant memory. I had a soulmate, but nothing inside me was changed, nothing in the world had changed — everything had continued; I was strong, I was above it.

I led them out carefully, always keeping the mundane under control, always ensuring that they would listen to me. As the time dragged on, I thought more about the vampires who had fallen, I was ready to be rid of the mundane. I threw him to them — did I say “I don’t want him” out loud? If not, I should have.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said to me — the man who had captured him, brought him here, left him with Camille. I should’ve known at that moment what he would do to me.

“Don’t thank me — you mean nothing,” I snapped. “This is about Valentine and the chaos he could bring.”

It was true. It was true then.

I wish it still was.

I’m not as above it all as I thought I was that night, I guess in the end I’m just as bad as the rest of them.

* * *

_Simon_

Sometimes I think about what would happen if I saw him right now. If we met at Pandemonium or something — some sort of neutral location where he might feel obligated to make small talk with me, and maybe pretend not to hate me for a second. _How are you holding up?_ he might say. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t, but the way I can hear his smooth satin voice in my head makes it feel realistic for a second. _How are you holding up, Fledgling?_ I think about it a lot. How did I miss that when he called me that, it sounded like a term of endearment?

Even though I know that there could never be any of that now. No soft, pleasant voice. No inquiring about my wellbeing. But I still make up a response in my head, every time I think about it. _Shitty_ , I might say. That’s true, but a little on the nose. So maybe not.

_Great_ , I could say. My mother always told me that sarcasm is just a defense mechanism. She told me it wasn’t a good look on me. And honestly, I think I would be so disarmed just being near him that I wouldn’t even be able to consider being sarcastic. So probably not.

I remember it perfectly — I remember every word.

I looked up at the hotel, that day that feels like lifetimes ago. I came back and stared, not sure what I wanted to find. Maybe it was answers, maybe it was her, or maybe it was _him_.

I felt chills when he appeared behind me. “Excuse me,” he said sharply, drawing me out of my daze, “are you insane or just an idiot?” I spun around to face him; he looked lethal. As he paused, he moved forward. As he moved forward, I moved back. It was a weird dance, the opposite of what it should’ve been. “What are you after, anyway?” Is it only knowing what I know now that makes me remember some sort of unmet expectation on his face?

I was scared, my voice barely a whisper, barely more than a stutter, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

He smiled and shook his head — at odds with his cold tone. “You can’t think I’m interested in saving your worthless life again.”

I still hear those words. I hear them more clearly now. They ring through my head sometimes. I’m sure it’s more true now than it ever was.

“Honestly, no, I don’t — I don’t think that.”

When he spoke again, I could see his fangs; he voice was low and threatening, “Get out of here and don’t come back.” When he spoke again, it was an order, “Go. Now.”

I ran away.

Fuck. Yes, okay? I know it now. I know everything now. I can pretend I did everything because I somehow subconsciously knew he’s my soulmate, but that’s just not fucking true. It feels good to try to lie to myself, but here’s what I know is true: I was drawn to the hotel because I wanted Camille’s blood like a fucking hormonal teenage boy, I felt pinpricks all over my skin at the sound of his voice because I was _scared_ , I backed away from him because he was a threat, I stuttered because I was fucked up and fucked over, I ran away from him because I’m pathetic. Okay?

Fuck.

_How are you holding up, Fledgling?_ he might ask — not really, but I still want to play pretend. I can at least do that in my own head.

_I feel almost normal_ , I would say. I’ve taken the whole day to think of that. He would know, wouldn’t he? Not exactly a casual, off-the-cuff remark. But I would sound good, and I would feel impressive saying it, even if only for a second. Maybe my back would straighten, maybe I’d be able to look him in the eyes.

But I think he knows me pretty well by now. Enough for him to dismiss me before without even regretting it, enough to do it again if I ever put him in that position. That’s the only thing that’s kept me from calling him, but I know I’m going to crack one of these days.

I’ve had the whole day to think of it, and that’s all I’ve come up with. The worst part isn’t made of what-if’s and written in the stars. The worst thing is just missing him.

_How are you holding up?_ I might ask him, if I could get the nerve to even string a sentence together. My voice would be coarse, unlike his beautiful one, my hands would be shaking where he would be carefully contained and carefully controlled.

Maybe the real problem is that I don’t know what he’d say.

I’m all sharp, unpolished edges, and he must hate every one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the positive response! I love hearing from everyone! I should update about every one to two weeks. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my best friend and beta Hannah.
> 
> As always: if you're into Shadowhunters and podcasts, Hannah and I are running your friendly neighborhood Shadowhunters podcast! We would love anyone to listen and talk to us! [Find us on iTunes!](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2) Or [Spreaker (If you aren't into iTunes)](https://www.spreaker.com/show/shadowcasterss-show). Plus come hang out with us on [Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ). 
> 
> Even if you aren't into podcasts, that Twitter account is where I basically just tweet about Shadowhunters all day and where I do fic updates, so follow me/us there!


	3. Transference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue except the first scene is from episode 1x08. This really is the first episode where Simon is wearing short sleeves around Raphael — I love how well this show works out for this fic.
> 
> Next chapter will at least partially deal with the events of 1x09, and then I’ll be able to go into a deeper exploration of their time together at Hotel DuMort and their growing relationship, so it won’t just be scenes from the show. Sorry if reading the events of these couple episodes isn’t that exciting, but I thought it was an important foundation (plus I like being in Raphael’s head).
> 
> Thanks for all the comments! I'm glad to hear people are enjoying!

_Raphael_

I smelled his blood from my bedroom.

I don’t remember now what book I had been reading at the time, but it fell to the ground with a crash. I bolted forward, jumping off my bed and out of the room without even a thought.

I had told him to leave, I had threatened him, I had done _everything_ I could to prevent this. I never should have been forced to smell his blood again.

When I got there, she was at his throat. Maybe I could’ve imagined that it yet another instance of him choosing her — of course someone like Simon will always choose someone like _her_ — but he was limp, and she was bleeding him dry. I didn’t have any more time to think at that moment than when I smelled his blood.

My instinct was to attack. I did; she didn’t even register that I was there until I threw her into the wall. Maybe she was too drunk on the mundane’s blood to notice me. Her eyes were still glazed when they met mine.

I took a breath, finally registering exactly where I was. Glancing behind me, I saw he was lying there completely still. He wasn’t dead, but I knew what he was.

Fledgling.

A giggle escaped from her. I had my forearm locked against her throat, and I pressed harder into her, wishing I could crush her. When I looked back at her, she was grinning. A trickle of blood was running down the side of her mouth. It was _his_ blood dripping down.

I was supposed to be able to ignore him. He was supposed to get old and marry some woman and have a warm, happy, boring life. He was supposed to be an accountant and always wonder about those marks on his arm. Maybe he’d forget about them, maybe he’d laugh about them, maybe he’d cry about them. I didn’t know him well. I hadn’t wanted to know him well.

“What the fuck?” I snarled, unable to think of anything else. She’d tasted his blood twice; she’d stolen it twice. _I_ was the one who could recognize his scent from five stories up. _I_ was the one whose words were scratched out on his arm. _I_ was the one who was going to have to clean this up — as always.

He was supposed to be _my_ damnation. Not hers.

But I would damn her for this.

“Oh, Raphael,” she said softly. “Just let me finish the job, no one will know.”

“You broke the Accords — again. You can’t keep risking us like this.”

“He’s just a mundane—”

“He spends his time with those Shadowhunters — you can’t get away with this — you can’t keep _doing_ this.”

A soft smile, an exasperated tone. “Darling, no one plays by the rules.” It was the kind of condescension only centuries of life could grant you.

I paused, staring directly at her. There was no regret there, no sign that she would do anything differently. Ever. I knew what I had to do. I loosened my grip on her as I said quietly, “If you don’t play by the rules, we die by them.”

“You know you love to clean up my messes.”

I let her go, and the most reaction I got from her was a small grimace when she thought I wasn’t looking her way. “Leave,” I said. I didn’t have the authority to order her around — yet — but she left anyway, wiggling her fingers at me as she smiled in a carefree, infuriating way.

“He tasted good, you should try it sometime,” she said softly, a giggle all over her tone, and then she was gone.

I looked down at his still body. When I leaned to pick him up, I noticed something. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in short sleeves. My breath caught, despite myself — despite how stupid it was, despite being long past having a physical need to breath. I crouched down and turned his arm over. _Please stop talking_ , I read. For a second, I couldn’t look away. Even though I had known it with certainty, there was something different about seeing it there — black words on his pale, cold skin.

For a single second, I felt it — a deep acceptance for whatever preternatural force brought him to me. I would deny it now, but I did feel it then. I even ran my finger over his words. His skin was smooth, just like everyone’s. It used to surprise me, since the words had always felt carved out, as though someone had painstakingly cut me, bled me, changed me, ruined me — all for his silly mundane words.

When I picked him up, I did it carefully, and then I ran out of the room. I needed supplies — blood if nothing else, he would be hungry — before I sought out the Shadowhunters, and we were running out of nighttime. He might be my soulmate, but his fate wasn’t my choice to make.

But I didn’t even consider just letting him die.

If someone is keeping score, somewhere, I guess there’s that.

-

“The vampires breached the accords. This is grounds for war.”

Isabelle Lightwood’s tone suggested that there was no room for argument, but that was only because she hadn’t been around as long as I had. I had prevented countless wars by playing the diplomat to Camille’s insanity. I was giving up making excuses for her; I was prepared to throw her to the wolves — or whichever race was most willing to destroy her. “The vampires aren’t behind this,” I said. It wasn’t every day that I carried a fledgling to the Shadowhunters, but he was laid out now, everything was on the table — figuratively and literally. “Just Camille. She attacked Simon on her own.” I had done everything right; I had fulfilled my end of the bargain.

Jace Wayland snapped, “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

“I could’ve gotten rid of him,” I said calmly. “Instead I brought him here — I don’t want trouble with the Shadowhunters.” Shadowhunters don’t like logic, but they occasionally can’t help but pay attention to it.

“Smart decision,” Isabelle said, all self-righteousness and condescension.

I took a deep breath, looking from Isabelle to Clary Fairchild, who I knew was the real one in charge here. “I warned the mundane to stay away,” I explained. “But Camille gave him a taste of her own blood, and — like an _addict_ — he came back wanting more.”

She gaped at me, fluctuating somewhere between horror and extreme anger, eventually landing on both. There were tears in her eyes and her entire face was red and blotchy. She cared about him, and I assumed he was in love with her. “The only reason Simon even tasted Camille’s blood is because of you,” she growled through her tears. I looked away from her, annoyed in spite of my resolve to remain calm. “You kidnapped him, you drug him to hotel DuMort, you _delivered_ him to Camille.”

“I never meant for this to happen.” My voice was louder than I expected, I felt myself break.

I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted _him_ , I never wanted anyone, I never wanted a mundane, I never wanted a soulmate, I never wanted any of this. I took precautions — I did everything right — but his stupidity and Camille’s selfishness ruined everything. The sun was about to rise and I would spend a day in purgatory here. They didn’t know what I was sacrificing. To Shadowhunters, the world revolves around Shadowhunters. I could see the words on his arm; they caught the corner of my eye as I heard her cry out his name. At that moment, those words were my hell and he was my penance. I looked at Clary and she had collapsed next to him, sobbing now. I hadn’t even known him, but I knew he would’ve traded my words for hers in an instant.

I sat down, breathing deeply to control myself again. “There is a way,” I said. Clary Fairchild’s eyes snapped to mine.

-

I stayed with him all day, in that basement. I tried to get comfortable and sleep, but I could smell angel blood all around me. It burned my throat a little, sickly sweet. I certainly couldn’t sleep. My nose wasn’t as sensitive as Camille’s, my senses weren’t as finely-honed, but my instincts warned me to run. But outside was bright sunlight and the Fairchild girl, running around and trying to decide something that she and I both knew was decided before I’d even laid eyes on her.

Not because of fate. Not because every word ever spoken was apparently — infuriatingly, hatred-inducing really — decided from the moment of your birth. In Simon’s case, decades before your birth. No, just because I knew what Shadowhunters were, I knew what mundanes were. Clary Fairchild was little more than a mundane, barely a Shadowhunter. I knew their weaknesses. Staking someone through the heart is a hard choice, helping someone to live anything that could be considered a life is an easy choice. Mundanes are all about easy choices, Shadowhunters are all about playing the hero.

No, Simon was never going to die. The second I put the choice in Clary’s incapable hands, I was certain.

I spent the day watching as rays of sunlight shifted, but always a safe distance away. Simon wasn’t much of a companion; it was the only time he’s ever been quiet. I vaguely wondered what was happening in the daylight that was helping Clary reach an easy decision.

I sighed, sat back, tried to sleep, peaked my eyes open to look at him, gazed at the black markings on his arms, sighed again, looked around for a book or other distraction, then sighed a third time. Over and over again, I repeated that process. Finally the sun started to set and Jace and Clary came back.

-

I led the way through the graveyard with a shovel in my hand. Jace carried the fledgling without complaint — he didn’t seem to be saying much but instead just focusing on Clary. I vaguely wondered if they were soulmates, and then hated myself for having devolved into someone who thought about that.

It felt interesting to be the one leading them forward. It didn’t feel bad. When I stopped, they stopped too, and Jace laid Simon down. He was still and lifeless among the headstones; sometimes I think about it now and shiver. At the time, it seemed like the natural order of things. I’ve grown weak since then.

We’d barely stopped when _she_ showed up. I had expected that, but I still frowned.

“What do you want?” Clary asked, as though this was her fight. Maybe to her it was; she cared about Simon, and to her, that was all this was. Short-sighted and narrow-minded. She had the world in her mind and thought that was the same thing as reality, when she and Simon were really just a small part in a political battle she couldn’t begin to understand.

“I want my property back,” Camille said flatly, for once not even a hint of jarring playfulness in her tone.

I took a step forward unconsciously. Clary was the only one between Simon and Camille, something pulled me to step between them too.

“Simon is not your property,” Clary snapped.

“If you’ll just hand him over, I’ll be on my way.”

Jace was armed and angry. “You heard Clary,” he said, “you’re not laying a hand on him.”

I looked at the three of them, trying to remain calm. It was difficult; I could feel the minutes of precious August nighttime slipping away, and I had been so close to crushing Camille’s windpipe the last time I was near her. After a day in forced captivity in that basement with nothing to keep me company except a dead body, the stink of angel blood, and a lot of anger, it was difficult not to attack now. When I looked back at her, I probably looked ready to kill. In reality, I was long past ready.

“Fine,” Camille said, “I tried to do this the nice way.” She snapped her fingers and my vampires appeared.

I looked around, recognizing each face. I stepped forward again, feeling calmer now. Secure. It was better with an audience, there would be no need for rumors and hearsay later. There would be no need to plead a case in which Camille was the obvious guilty party. “I’m glad you brought everyone here to witness your demise,” I said, speaking for the first time. “Camille killed this mundane, I have all the proof. She’s been breaking the Accords for too long now. He’s the evidence we need to show the Clave what Camille has been doing.”

Camille giggled. “Are you trying to overthrow me?”

“No. I already have.” For once, I was full of confidence. Even more, there was relief that I hadn’t been expecting — I could finally let out the anger that had been burning under the surface for years. She had no power over me anymore.

The other vampires moved, gathering around her. Maybe they weren’t prepared to attack but they were certainly ready for the possibility. “Don’t listen to him,” she said, a last-ditch effort. “Raphael doesn’t know the first thing about leading. You need me. I’ve given you everything you could want — all the riches, all the pleasures you could desire.”

“By breaking the law.” Then the words came out more emotional than I intended, “Which will only destroy us.”

She had never been able to see that, and she didn’t care. She wanted pleasure, I wanted to prevent genocide. There was still confidence in her; she didn’t know she was beaten. “We can fix this, if we just get rid of the body — this mundane means nothing.”

The words poked at me, but Clary acted before I could. She approached Camille slowly, with purpose. “ _Means nothing_?” she repeated. “Over my dead body.” Then she punched Camille across the face with power that caused the centuries-old vampire to stumble. Then Camille lurched forward, ready to retaliate, but Clary just sauntered away without looking back, a small smile on her face. Maybe she was lethal.

The other vampires surrounded Camille, subdued her, took her away to lock her up. At that moment, I thought for the first time that she was no longer a threat. I had spent years moving things carefully into place to cause this.

I think about this all the time now. I didn’t realize how quickly it would be undone. I would never have expected the betrayal.

At the time, I smiled where Jace and Clary couldn’t see; I felt free for the first time in decades.

-

“Clary, it’s time. Which will it be?” I asked, extending the shovel and the stake. I knew the answer. We both knew the answer.

A tear fell. She started digging.

I gripped the wooden stake in my hand as I watched her. For a second, I wondered if I would’ve allowed her to use it. She never would’ve chosen it — it was a moot point — but, no, I don’t think I would have.

-

I preferred him as a vampire. He panicked — they all do — about being a monster, about drinking blood, about not being able to say God. I had gone through it, and perhaps I would’ve said something to him then. But I was more aware than ever that _I_ was the bystander in Clary and Simon’s story.

I watched as they yelled at each other, as they both cried, as he ran away. I stared after him long after Shadowhunter eyes would’ve been able to track him. Then I turned back to Jace and Clary.

“I’ll look after Simon, you have my word.” I meant it, and I immediately ran after him. 

* * *

_Simon_

I didn’t know I had been buried alive, I just knew I had to get out.

I didn’t know it was blood, I just knew it tasted good.

I didn’t know how it happened, I just knew I was a monster.

He didn’t even cross my mind then. He didn’t mean anything to me then.

I just ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Primeval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All lines of dialogue except the last scene are from episode 1x09 — which is delightfully more Saphael-heavy than I remembered it being. Next chapter is domestic Hotel DuMort! 
> 
> A quick reminder because it happens a couple times here: These characters are narrating from a point shortly after 1x13, so if they seem to “switch” to present tense, that’s why. Hints have been dropped, but what’s going on in the present shouldn’t be quite clear yet.

_Simon_

He intercepted me, and I nearly fell.

My head was so fucked that I wouldn’t have expecting losing my footing would make it any worse. But the concrete had at least been _something_. After I took a breath that did nothing — I tried not to think about that — I looked at his calm brown eyes. Maybe they should’ve been an anchor, but it just set me off even more. Why was he calm? Nothing was calm — nothing—

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I said, and it was true. I wasn't running with purpose, I was running because my thoughts — _not this not here please God no not this —_ were spinning around and around in my brain so much that my head felt light and my thoughts lost all meaning except the white noise of sheer panic. Running was all there was outside of my brain.

I noticed I could see my reflection in a piece of glass. I tried to remember every vampire movie I’d ever seen, every fact I’d ever read — in some, they couldn’t see their reflection. I’d asked Clary to confirm that I was — _this_ — hadn’t I? But maybe — “I can see my reflection, does that mean I’m not — not one of you?”

“You have a lot to learn,” Raphael said, softness all over his tone. It didn't register at the time — I hope I'm not lying to myself now.

“This can’t be happening.” I started running again — my instinct was just to run, my brain was spinning, I could smell the spilled blood drying on my shirt. I wasn’t thirsty anymore, but it fucked with my head. There was the ringing silence from my lack of heartbeat, my breaths did nothing anymore, and I could hear so much ambient noise that even the distant sounds of cars and people sounded like screams to my ears. That’s probably how he could sneak up on me, why I flinched.

“Listen,” he said, grabbing my shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” I shouted, shoving him away. “I don’t have a heartbeat — I’m dead!” Saying the word out loud didn’t make it better.

“Undead,” he said, and that just made it worse.

I looked at him, the picture of calm, as thought this was nothing but a passing occurrence that he’d come to expect. Maybe it should’ve made me feel a little better, but it just made it worse — I didn’t want to be desensitized, I didn’t want to say _undead_ like it was inevitable, I didn’t want to stop fighting, I didn’t want to be _him_.

“You did this to me.” My memory was foggy, but I knew it had to be him. At the time, that was the only thing that made sense. He was there when I woke up, he gave me blood that was all over my clothes, he was ready for this — he had all the answers, he must have done it.

He frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

“You’re a monster,” I nearly shouted, not believing him at all. He gave a small sigh, looking nothing but understanding. It took that for the realization to set in for me. “ _I’m_ a monster.”

“Look, you gotta get this under control. You are what you are now. I’ll get you back to the Hotel DuMort. Get you fed. Show you around your new home.”

“That place will _never_ be my home.” That place was where I had been taken there against my will, where I felt a knife against my throat, where I tasted a vampire’s blood, where I _died_ — and now he was welcoming me back, saying it would be _home_? No, that was too much — way, way too much.

I threw him against the van. The thing about being a monster is that instincts are a lot harder to control. I couldn’t even think — I didn’t realize what I was doing until I heard him slam against the van. He landed on his feet and just looked at me — no accusation, no anger, nothing but kindness.

I couldn’t help it. I ran again.

-

I almost killed my mother. I’m not trying to excuse my actions, but throwing Raphael against a delivery truck wasn’t nearly the worst thing I did that night.

 _Feed_ , everyone said. I mean, there’s gotta be a better way to say that.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said.

“Why are you so sorry? Raphael did this to me.” I couldn’t even look at her. Two days before, I woke up with Maureen and wished it was Clary — she was every fantasy, she was everything perfect, she was everything good in the world. She wasn’t my soulmate, but fuck had I wanted her to be. But at that moment, I couldn’t even meet her eyes.

“Simon, it was my choice.” Then I looked. “You died — Raphael brought you to us — I had a choice. I could stake your heart or I could bury you and you could come back.”

I was frozen. “Clary, why?”

“Because I love you, Simon.”

Then I was just angry. I would’ve killed to hear those words two days before, but now everything was fucked — inside and out. “You call that love? You brought me back to _this_? This _nothing_? Where I feed and I have to hide from the sun and I can’t bear to be by the people that I love? You ever think about _that_ , Clary? How I would feel, what I would _be_?”

“Simon, please understand that I—”

“Stay away from me.”

I slipped away from her, into the shadows. I didn’t leave her — I knew I needed to go with her and Luke, my brain was clear enough for that — but for once the shadows looked welcoming. For the first time, I thought maybe I belonged there. Maybe I _was_ a monster.

Maybe I _deserved_ this.

-

 _The fledgling can stay_ , he said. At the time nothing registered. My body felt different, my mind felt different, and my throat felt more and more dry by the second. I could hear the blood pulsing through Clary’s body, and every minute it smelled better. Every minute I felt more like the monster I knew I was.

So I didn’t realize then how every word he said sounded open and honest, practically an invitation. That night was hell, but Raphael was nothing except _kind_.

I wonder if I should think about that night a little differently now. A vampire is my soulmate, so it was probably unavoidable. The words _fate_ and _destiny_ always sound so pretty and welcoming when you aren’t becoming a bloodsucking monster. But if I’d known about Raphael, maybe I wouldn't have minded so much. Maybe it wouldn’t have felt like such torture. It would’ve been hard — and sometimes it still is — but it would’ve been bearable.

 _If_ I’d known.

But now I’m alone, sitting in a spare room at the Institute. Anytime I leave, I get nothing but glares and outright insults from all the other Shadowhunters besides Clary, Alec, and Izzy. And those three are too worried about Jace to spare me anything more than errant thoughts. So now I mostly just stay here.

It’s hard to rearrange things, to pretend like Raphael and I went through all this — hell and fire and the winding road to Mordor, basically — all so that we could end up here. Because all that’s here is _not him never him where is he does he even miss me —_ and I don’t see how I’m ever going to get him back.

Maybe that night was the worst thing, but tonight doesn’t feel much better. 

* * *

_Raphael_

_The fledgling can stay_ , I’d said. I was made of nothing but Simon-centric weaknesses even back then. Had I wanted him around from the first second I saw him, or was it just when he became one of us? I can’t remember now — it seems so superfluous to even wonder — but I miss that time. I miss the amused self-deprecation of not minding his presence. It was innocent then. Uncomplicated.

Even locking him into a chain-link cage with Clary had been tinged with amusement, and even when he screamed my name five minutes later — probably half-insane from true thirst only a fledgling can feel — I just smiled. I walked back into the room to see him looking ready to kill — desperate and ready to attack the first thing in sight. For the first time, he looked like a real vampire. For the first time, I was truly comfortable — soulmate or not, dealing with an angry vampire was my element, my area of expertise, something thoroughly within my power.

“You ready now?” I asked, having a bit of fun.

His voice was quiet and bitter as he admitted, “Yes.” I couldn’t help but focus on Clary, who looked horror-stricken. I smirked at her, feeling victorious. It was silly of me — childish, even — but she _had_ slaughtered several members of my clan. And then the fledgling said, “ _Please_.”

I reached behind me to grab a glass. “Here you go,” I said, and I didn’t break eye contact with Clary as I handed the blood over to Simon. Horror, revulsion, pity — I saw it all over her face. All the emotions that would damn Simon eventually. Everything that would make him hate who he was becoming.

I looked back at him in time to see him staring at the blood, then at Clary, and then he focused straight forward as he took his first drink. I didn’t hate him for that.

“It’s all about presentation and quality produce,” I told them as Simon slammed his glass down. I looked back at her then. “You see, us vampires look after one another. We take care of our family.”

“Simon already has a family,” she snapped.

“ _Had_ a family. That’s all gonna change now. You’re a Shadowhunter, he’s a vamp. You two will never be equals — you’ll have to learn that for yourself.” I handed another glass to Simon.

She looked ready to kill me — and far more threatening than Simon. If she hadn’t been fenced in, I had no doubt that she would’ve at least pulled her Seraph blade on me. After all, what were Shadowhunters except brute force and self-absorption?

“ _Hasta luego_ ,” I said lightly, leaving the room.

-

They forced me out in front of the hotel, they forced me to bring my people. I wouldn’t have come, but the fledgling had called it _important_. Even then I was pathetic.

“We’re offering an alliance with the Seelies,” Clary told me, as though that was something within her power, and then looked behind her at the new alpha — yet another werewolf whose name I wished I didn’t know, but I was pretty certain it was Luke.

He sighed. “And the werewolves,” he added listlessly, clearly forced into this by the tiny redhead who I was growing more convinced every passing second was a master manipulator.

“Why should we believe you?” I asked. “You killed our people. You violated our home.”

Jace accused, “ _You_ kidnapped a mundane. Remember?”

Simon exclaimed, “That was me!” while raising his hand. I almost would’ve laughed, but then Clary started speaking.

“Look,” she said, disconcertingly commanding, “you were just following Camille’s orders. She violated the Accords. You’re a different kind of leader, we’re a new generation of Shadowhunters. We believe everyone can be equal, but we have to work together — to defeat Valentine, and to ensure the Clave doesn’t repeat past mistakes. What do you say?”

I paused. “This decision requires a consensus,” I said, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Clary, feeling a sickening sinking sensation in my stomach.

Simon stepped forward. “I vote yes,” he said sincerely.

I felt my mood shift instantaneously. I nearly laughed — I think that I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, well, well — baby’s first words,” I said.

“Don’t make me regret them,” he shot back.

I forgot about Clary for a second as I met his eyes. “If our newest member pledges his loyalty to his new leader, and joins our clan, we’ll all stand beside you.”

“Simon’s not a pawn,” Clary cut in, and then I certainly remembered her — felt the threat of her like poison creeping through my veins. I tried to tell myself I was exaggerating.

 _Not a pawn_ , she said, but what else was this? She wanted _me_ as a pawn. She thought she could give an adorable speech about working together and about how she’s the most wonderful, wide-eyed, free-thinking Shadowhunter out there, but she just wanted loyalty. She wanted to win a war. There was nothing she wanted except mercenaries. She was an opportunist, like all Shadowhunters.

“No, I’m not,” Simon said, turning back to me and looking me up and down. I wondered what he was thinking. “But I accept your deal.”

“Simon, what are you doing?” Clary asked.

“Whatever it takes to protect the Downworld. It’s my world now.”

I held his gaze for a second, before looking to the rest of my clan to make sure they agreed. A few nodded, none looked opposed. “Then we’re in,” I agreed.

Clary looked uneasy for a second. I wasn’t sure what caused it, but I hoped it was me.

-

I lurched forward, growling — fangs bared, ready to kill.

A split-second later, so did the rest of the clan.

I think about that split-second a lot.

We were surrounded by threats. He walked next the werewolves; of course he did. His instincts should’ve been screaming at him to keep away, that they weren’t his friends, but he either didn’t have such instincts or didn’t care. He was the vulnerable element, he was at risk, he was just a fledgling. Of course I was watching him closely, of course I was ready to kill every one of those dogs.

There were a lot of excuses I could’ve made.

He was _my_ fledgling — I wouldn’t have admitted it then but I accept it now — and that was why I reacted before everyone else.

I was the first to notice, the first to care, the one who would’ve gladly bled that werewolf dry.

Really, I was already fucked.

-

I was about to walk into the room when I heard her voice. “I wish you could come with us,” she said.

I didn’t like having Clary here — what kind of leader was I, to allow someone who had murdered so many vampires back into the hotel? That’s what I told myself, anyway — it seemed like a good reason to not want her there. So I stood outside the door, not wanting to interrupt. From what I had seen of Simon that day, he needed some sort of resolution.

“I’ve got a lot of stuff to work on here,” he said slowly. “Like… controlling my murderous tendencies.” Clary laughed, a soft giggle. Then he added, “We’ll see each other soon.”

“Before you know it.” There was a pause that I wondered about, and then Clary said, “Simon, listen, I—”

“What’s done is done,” he interrupted, and I liked him a fraction more for being strong enough to reject what I knew would be an insincere apology. “I’m a vampire, and you’re a Shadowhunter. Maybe that’s supposed to mean something, but… you’re still you and I’m still me. Sort of. Enough, anyway.”

“Simon,” she whispered.

“Let’s work up to hugging. Because I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Sorry,” she said awkwardly.

“It’s okay.”

“Goodbye, Simon.”

I looked in to see Clary and Jace leaving, and then I came up behind Simon. “Welcome home,” I said.

He didn’t turn around.

-

I showed him to his bedroom. He glanced around without much of an expression on his face — he’d looked like that since the moment Clary left him.

I’d made sure there was a TV and a laptop there. I wasn’t sure what else an eighteen-year-old boy required in 2016, but it seemed perfectly acceptable to me. “Well,” I said, sounding silly even to myself, “Let me know if you need anything. I’m next door.”

He blinked and looked at me. His eyes were theoretically meeting mine, but he seemed to stare right through me. Then he nodded slowly.

“You’ll get used to it,” I said quietly. I couldn’t be all soft bell-like giggles and flaccid reassurances like Clary Fairchild, but I had eighty years to know what this world looked like, how it felt. I knew there wasn’t much another person could say to someone whose eyes looked like that.

He nodded again.

I stared for a long minute before asking, “Did you think we were monsters, that first time you were here?” I didn’t know where it came from, and I gripped my jacket-covered left forearm with my opposite hand, hating that I couldn’t help but think about it.

This time, his gaze hardened. “Yes,” he said flatly.

At least he didn’t look dead anymore.

I remembered the fast-talking, energetic, practically manic Simon Lewis I’d met that first night. This man looked nothing like him.

“I hope that will change,” I said, overly formal, then I walked out of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the feedback!! 
> 
> Thanks to Hannah for betaing and suffering through me talking about Saphael constantly. 
> 
> As always, Hannah and I have a Shadowhunters podcast:  
> [iTunes](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2)  
> [Spreaker (If you aren't into iTunes)](https://www.spreaker.com/show/shadowcasterss-show).  
> [Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ)


	5. Acclimation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of fluff :)
> 
> I've done some outlining and it looks like this story will probably be somewhere from 12-14 chapters, in case anyone is curious.
> 
> This chapter takes place between the events of 1x09 and 1x10.

_Raphael_

When I walked in, he was leaning against the wall, staring forward blankly. A bit more attractive and he might’ve looked like a model, posed just so, but his curls were unkempt and I didn’t think that dead look in his eyes could help sell anything.

“This is the time we sleep,” I said quietly. A pause — no response. So I turned around to leave, but then he asked a soft question that made me pause.

“Is it morning?”

When I looked back, he was meeting my eyes. “Yes,” I replied.

He nodded, then leaned his head back so it bumped against the wall. If you looked quickly, maybe you’d think of him as the picture of indolence and casualness. But to me, it was all pent-up rage and seething agony. “Do you remember what sunlight feels like?” he asked, his voice a little louder.

I meandered a few feet closer to him. If I had thought to prepare for speaking with him, I certainly couldn’t have anticipated that he would’ve been the one standing still, with me all nerves and fidgeting. This could be _just so_ — easy, in order, a smooth transition to him living here — if he’d just listen to me, but instead he was acting like an ancient tree I had to fell.

“No,” I said, because even then I couldn’t help but indulge him.

“Warm.” He met my eyes again as he continued, “Even in the winter or fall, stepping into the sunlight just feels warm, all over your skin. And not just on the surface, but levels deep — it feels like it goes all the way through you, and suddenly you just feel better all over. Just _warm_. The promise that maybe everything will be okay again.”

“This is the time we sleep,” I repeated, but I got up and walked over to him. His eyes traced my actions, and I patted his arm lightly before turning back around — I didn’t even think about touching him until after it was over, and only then did I feel a little embarrassed about such a comfortable, casual gesture. “Someday you won’t be able to remember.”

He grabbed my left arm and I spun back around, ready for a fight not because I had any desire to fight him, but just because there was no other foreseeable reason for him to be gripping my wrist like that. For one pounding second, I also considered that maybe he suspected — maybe that was why he was grabbing _that_ arm. But when I looked at him, he didn’t look threatening, and he certainly didn’t look like he could possibly suspect that I was his soulmate. His eyes were wide — open and honest, a rare sight around here.

“But I don’t want to forget,” he said quietly, his voice almost pleading. I didn’t hate him for that — I couldn’t.

“It’s easier that way.”

“But—”

“And sometimes I still feel warm,” I interrupted. I stared at him hard for a second until he nodded and dropped my wrist. My skin prickled where he had touched me, but I didn’t think that counted as warmth. “Are you finished now?” I asked, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little defeated but at least it was better than how emotionless he’d sounded before. “I’ve heard that now is the time we sleep.”

I cracked a smile at that and gave one nod, and then he following me off in the direction of the bedrooms.

-

There was a knock at the door, so I bolted out of bed. I hadn’t had a chance to check the time, but no one had woken me up from a dead sleep before, so I assumed it had to be an emergency. Halfway to the door, I noticed my soulmarks — the black words visible even in the darkness. I stopped dead, remembering that if it were _him_ at the door, he would be able to see. I grabbed my nearest sweatshirt and pulled it on.

When I yanked the door open, Simon certainly was the one standing there, in a pair of sweatpants and a Star Wars t-shirt I had no idea how he could’ve possibly come by. His hair was mussed and there was a half-smile playing at his lips that I was a little disarmed by — he’d gone to bed looking more like a zombie than a vampire, but now he looked pretty normal.

“God, Simon, what do you want?” I asked, going for murderous intensity, but I capped the sentence off with a wide yawn — so, admittedly, that was a failure.

His eyes flickered to what occurred to me was my bare chest and then back up to my face. I took a step away from him as I yanked the zipper halfway up. Simon took the opportunity to not only step inside my room, but to slip around me. When he turned back to face me, he met my eyes with careful innocence as though he hadn’t been obviously snooping.

“Well, I’ve been trying to sleep,” he said so quickly that I was certain he’d been forcing himself to stay silent for so long that the floodgates were crashing open. “But it’s a new place and it’s _weird_ and I don’t have any video games or a guitar and the air feels kinda stale, you know? And I wanted to open the blinds but then I thought about, y’know, death. So I was thinking about death and that got depressing so I looked at the books in my room and _speaking of depressing_ , I don’t know why the fuck anyone thought I’d want to read some William Faulkner in my spare time, and I don’t even know the wifi password. The _wifi_ password, Raphael. Talk about essential information.”

“Bite me,” I said.

“Huh?”

“The password,” I explained, “no capital letters.” He laughed, and for the first time I didn’t mind letting myself get talked into that ridiculous password. “And I think I have some sort of video game console.” I vaguely remembered some kind of video game system being placed in my room with another vampire mentioning something about my needing to have ‘fun,’ but I certainly hadn’t touched it.

“You play?” he asked.

“No, I don’t play.” I hoped my tone made it apparent that I thought he was a moron, and then I let out another wide yawn.

“Did I wake you up?” Fake-innocence was all over his tone.

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding even the tiniest bit sorry. Instead of heading anywhere in the vicinity of the door, he crouched down by my TV and started opening up all the cabinets of the TV stand. I glanced back at my bed and my navy blanket and considered for a brief second if I should continue standing there. But then I remembered that I carried him all the way to the Institute two nights ago, plus he was my soulmate — maybe I should give up on the idea of formalities at this point — so I sat down and pulled the blanket onto my lap. I leaned my elbows onto my knees and stared hard at his back.

I wanted to hate how charming I found him, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend. He let out a laugh and pulled out a console that looked ancient — which was saying something coming from an eighty-year-old vampire — then he mentioned something about _Super Mario Kart_ and now there was a full grin on his face and I think I exhaled a quiet _fuck_.

Because the thought occurred to me about what would’ve happened if I’d met him when I was a teenager in the 50’s, if soulmarks weren’t real, if I’d just seen his mess of curly hair and heard his quick chatter and maybe I would’ve stared at him and maybe his smile would’ve made me smile too. Everything would’ve been secret and often torture — as my two occasions of falling in love were back then; it wasn’t easy to love a boy then — but it was easy to imagine, somehow. He would’ve looked just right, arm slung out of a massive baby-blue car, strands of hair escaping from whatever slicked-back style he would’ve tried, glasses and white teeth reflecting neon lights.

I’d lived about eighty years — I’d had that long to develop a resistance to him — but when he turned to me with that grin and said, “Wanna play?” I felt something in me slip.

I blinked. “You know I’m not playing that with you,” I said, trying and failing to force some vitriol into my words. He laughed, and then he stared at me steadily. “What?” I snapped.

“You’re a little less scary when you first wake up.”

I gave a small sigh, but admittedly I was sitting in a bed surrounded by a heavy quilt. Still, I had to at least pretend to maintain some semblance of decorum. “You know we have to start your training in a couple hours, right?”

“I know,” he laughed, “but can’t I just beat you in a video game first?” He held up a controller for a second and then tossed it to me. I hadn’t even noticed him hooking the game up, but he flipped a switch and suddenly some sort of loud, beeping music started. Simon crawled over and propped his back against my bed. “It’ll be fun,” he added. “Even you have fun _sometimes_ , right? But I’m Luigi — don’t even _think_ about choosing Luigi.”

Simon Lewis was going to be the death of me.

* * *

_Simon_

“It’s simple,” he said, setting a glass of blood down on the table. “Just… don’t drink it.” Then he sat down on one of those hideous gold couches, looking far too comfortable. I wished I could have that air of cool surrounding me so thick it practically threw smoke in everyone’s face. He leaned his head until it rested against the back of the couch.

He looked different after that one hour we’d spent apart. I’d never seen him anything like that — curled up in bed, surrounded by a cocoon of blankets, looking like a real person for the first time in that fucking black sweatshirt. Now here he was, dark red blazer over a black dress shirt and pants, hair carefully slicked back, looking absolutely aloof, haughty, completely unapproachable — just a real pain in the ass. An hour ago I’d looked up at him, playing Super Nintendo with me — _Mario_ he’d chosen, how fucking lame — fangs biting down on his bottom lip in concentration, letting out little noises of frustration that I don’t think he ever even realized he was making.

And now he looked like he could kill me. A real Ice Queen, really, ready to send me to my death in a frozen tundra.

“Wait, what?” I asked, realizing that I’d barely paid attention. He’d used the word _training_ ominously earlier, but now he just looked bored, not exactly ready for anything interesting. It was anti-climactic, really.

“Don’t drink the blood,” he said in a tone that seemed to indicate I was the dumbest man alive.

I sat down, too. So much for my training sequence, which should’ve been complete with some epic background music, maybe some kind of adversary, probably a pretty love interest. Instead I got him, flipping idly through a book. I groaned.

-

After an hour, it wasn’t so easy.

The smell that had been an unpleasant reminder of the unfortunate condition I’d done my best to forget with an admittedly enjoyable morning — I almost smiled, remembering Raphael letting out an unintelligible but surely very explicit stream of Spanish on one occasion when I beat him by a particularly wide margin. It had been satisfying.

The smell _had_ just been an annoyance, an overly delicious aroma in the air, not much different from smelling chocolate cake when you’re trying to fast. But now it was really pissing me off. The scent seemed to hang heavier in the air with every passing minute, and it was dragging me down with it. I wanted it. I needed it. And it made me hate seeing him sit there with a book held casually in his hands, looking so unbothered I half-wondered if he was really even a vampire.

“How long can you do this for?” I asked, a little more harshly than I intended.

“A while,” he said absently, still not looking up from his book. The title _Ensaio sobre a Cegueira_ was written across the white cover in big black letters.

“Give me a rough estimate.”

“A day or so, maybe.” After a pause, he met my eyes, a smirk on his face.

“Are you lying?”

He didn’t answer.

I had some lame pamphlets on the Accords that I flipped through, and a laptop with _biteme_ wireless — which was really fast, to be honest — but I still felt acutely as each minute ticked by, every one feeling like pure torture. Another hour and I was pacing. It didn’t do much to distract me, but I hoped maybe it distracted him.

After a half-hour of that, the scent went to my head. My fangs felt sharp against my bottom lip, while his legs were crossed indolently — it wasn’t fair for him to be so calm. It wasn’t fair that he did it all looking like a fucking supermodel posed on a hideous gold couch.

I snapped, then, and lurched forward to grab the glass. Suddenly I was flat on my back — I guess he hadn’t been as casual as he looked — and I growled at him. I hadn’t meant to — I was sane enough to hate the sound as soon as it left my throat — but I was all instincts, all vicious thirst and sharp anger.

“Raphael,” I snarled.

“You can’t resist anymore?” he asked, which was kind of a weird thing to say when he was quite literally sitting on top of me.

“No.”

(Now, I wonder what he felt then. Did he like me then? It’s such a stupid thing to think, but I don’t have anything better to do than trace every second of our time together. Stupid tiny shit makes sense, like him answering the door looking way too fucking good in an unzipped sweatshirt — of course he didn’t care about being bare-chested and driving me crazy, he only cared about covering up his soulmarks. And him on top of me — that’s the closest physically that we ever were, at least in a charged environment like that. So of course I think about it now, but I was dying of thirst so I can’t even remember how the weight of him on top of me felt. Fuck.)

He reached behind him and grabbed what looked like a shot glass full of blood. I hadn’t even noticed it, but I downed it without thinking. The tasted cleared out some of the fog and anger in my brain, and it dulled the burn in my throat just a fraction. Just enough for sanity. I blinked and he was off me.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, throwing an arm over my eyes. I didn’t bother to get up. It was stupid, but I’d had some kind of ridiculous _Rocky_ vision of training, and I hadn’t imagined it to feel like this — shitty, small-scale, feeling every tiny little slip of my sanity, and hating myself every time.

“It’s the best way. You have to learn how to resist blood in your area before we move onto the finer points of being a vampire.”

“I don’t like it.” I expected him to give a frustrated sigh at my whiny voice — even _I_ hated it. But he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and then I heard him flip the page of his book. Suddenly I wondered if he’d even read a word.

-

Again and again it happened. The couple of ounces of blood only held me off for a few minutes at a time — faster as it got later. _You should be getting better_ , he said, sounding disappointed.

He was quick to react every time, only once did my fingers so much as graze the cool glass. Every time my resistance to him got more violent. I tried to fight him, but it didn’t seem to particularly faze him. Once I even threw him across the room, but he caught me and had my back flat against the wall before I could even decide between being horrified with myself or going for the blood. “You’re not _just_ a monster, Simon,” he said in a soothing voice. But it did nothing. The meaning of his words didn’t even reach my head. I fought, flailed, and snapped my teeth ineffectively everywhere I aimed.

-

Finally he let me drink. I looked at him over the top of the glass and saw that his mouth was set in a flat, hard line. But all I could do was gulp every drop down, almost feeling like myself by the end. I set the glass down, trying not to feel anything but the relief of finally being sated.

“Sorry,” I whispered as I turned to leave.

Somehow, I felt even worse with a clear head. I had wanted to _kill_ him. I had _tried_. This morning my main concern had been wifi and I had all but convinced myself that I was still Simon Lewis. But I looked at him and couldn’t help but see the man wrapped up in blankets — fucking king of the vampires — who let himself get talked into vintage video games. And I hated myself. Truly, viciously.

So I turned to find out, but he grabbed my wrist hard. I hadn’t even noticed him, but I stopped dead.

“It’s dark out,” he said flatly. “Go outside, take a walk. Just get out of here.”

My eyes widened, watching carefully as he walked away just long enough to fill another glass full of blood.

“Drink.” His voice wasn’t quite an order.

“I’m not thirsty—”

“Drink,” he repeated, interrupting me.

I obeyed — it still smelled good, I felt another pang of hatred at myself. “I really _wasn’t_ thirsty,” I insisted hollowly as I handed the empty glass back.

“Tell me that in five hours when you’re walking home and pass a human.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down. Then he grabbed my sleeve and yanked me in the direction of the back door. I followed him listlessly, but I did feel a little better when I stepped out into the fresh night air. His eyes never left mine, but I looked around.

“You’re ambassador to the werewolves now,” he said unceremoniously. “Go to Luke, don’t talk to humans, call me if — _when_ — you fuck up.”

I nodded dumbly.

“Be careful, Fledgling,” he said quietly, taking me completely off-guard.

“Thanks.” I wished I’d said something else — if there ever had been a time for an impassioned speech, that was the moment. But I had nothing to offer him even then, nothing to match his kindness and patience and just _goodness_.

God, I fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the reads, kudos, and reviews! I'm glad that people seem to like this story!
> 
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	6. Circumvention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue from the first scene (up until Clary leaves) is from episode 1x11. The other Simon scene from 1x11 will be addressed next chapter.

_Raphael_

I was a floor up, on the opposite end of the hotel, but I recognized the sound of his voice before anyone even told me he was there. His words reached me faintly like a whisper — for half a second I thought maybe it was just a memory — but then I felt chills crawl up my spine. It was too real for it to not be him.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how annoyed I’d been with him. I’d told him to take a walk — I’d gone soft, really, I told him that because I knew it was what he’d needed — and how did he repay me? By staying out all night. It was _day_ now — bright sunlight, nearly time to sleep — and I didn’t even know how he’d managed to make it home without dying. He’d been a vampire for all of two days and he already felt entitled to taking unnecessary risks.

The relief I felt that he was okay was tempered by the annoyance that I felt such acute relief.

A sigh escaped my lips — relief still, just relief. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , I scolded myself. But nothing could stop me from bolting immediately down to where he was. Of course, if you’d asked, I would’ve immediately denied that I had ever done anything that could remotely be construed as bolting. _I just thought it might’ve been important_ , I would’ve told him, had he ever come close to realizing how much he was impacting me — instead of thinking of nothing but Clary Fairchild all day, every day.

I was starting to think that every tiny change in his expression — a flash of unearned anger, discordant happiness, the softness that sometimes played at the edges of his eyes — was because of her. _For_ her.

He certainly was getting under my skin.

I ran my hand along the door handle when I got there. It was the same room I’d been training him in, painstakingly, for hours. I had been forced to pretend to be completely unaffected. Lately I’d been doing nothing but pretending to be unaffected when in reality I was the complete opposite. And of course he wouldn’t even think that I might be suffering too.

I gave a hollow laugh when I remembered when he spoke the words written on my arm. I hadn’t even cared — I’d barely done more than blink. And now here I was, chasing after him, feeling a part of myself shut down when I reached out to open the door just as I heard _her_ voice. “Why can’t we just take what we need and leave?” she asked.

I almost snorted — Clary was certainly still Clary. Instantaneously, my back straightened, and I opened the door with purpose. Neither of them noticed, but I leaned against the door as it shut behind me, making sure the sound as it closed was nearly nonexistent. It was easier to be the vampire king and nothing else when she was around — having a clear and present danger in my immediate vicinity made it easier to not think about him.

When did I become someone who spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about my romantic misadventures? I shook my head, disgusted with myself.

Then Simon said, “If we were transfusing goat blood, no problem, but human blood? It’s against the Accords.”

I came forward swiftly, just to see what he would do when I appeared right behind his shoulder. “I’m surprised you know that much,” I said, amused when he flinched. He deserved it.

“Why do you keep doing that to me?”

“If you worked on controlling your enhanced senses as you should, you wouldn’t be surprised.” He gave me a small, tired glare. Then I turned to the most immediate threat and said, “Clary, you really have to stop barging in here.”

“Sorry, Raphael,” she said with a small shrug, clearly not sorry at all. “We need blood.”

“So I’ve heard.” _You just said you wanted to steal it, you horrible girl,_ I almost added. Instead I just gave a small smile, because at least I finally had the upper hand — a bargaining chip. “Human blood. Funny how those rules for Downworlders stop being such a big deal when you need our help. _Que lastima_. No can do.”

I sat down with every bit of casualness I could muster — which was surprisingly easy, interacting with Clary certainly cleared my head — but after barely a second, Simon said, “Okay, listen, come on,” and tapped at my shoulder to get me to stand. Once I did, he pulled me aside a few feet, away from Clary. He looked back at her and then at me, deadly serious now. It was all I could do to not follow his eyes. “Last night I bumped into Bernice,” he said. I nodded, not wanting to give anything up. Simon crossed his arms. “She overheard a couple of bridge and tunnel vamps gossiping about Camille.”

“You said Camille took a leave of absence, right?” So much for a poker face — I couldn’t help but let intensity color every one of my words. He was new to this world, but to me? It was life and death, which was certainly saying something for a vampire.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. They didn't care about that. They said she kept around a couple of humans. Apparently, she'd feed on them, but never went all the way. What are they called? Uh, sub... submissives?”

“Keep your voice down,” I snapped. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, looking at Clary to try to make sure she wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t seem to be, but there was no way I’d trust her. “They're called subjugates. Horrible things. Even Camille got sick of them.”

I almost shuddered as I remembered them — they made my whole body go cold at just the memory. There was nothing worse than having a subjugate around — horrible, pathetic creatures. Mindless, soulless, the mark of exactly how bad things were under Camille. I could never let us go back to that. She probably would’ve loved to keep Simon around in that capacity, if she hadn’t been trying to bleed him dry.

“Okay, so… they're gone?” he asked. He took my silence as assent and continued, “But keeping around human beings just to drain at cocktail hour, that's against the Accords. Camille had a taste for the real stuff — I know from experience. She had to have something on ice.”

Somehow, it took that long for me to become the least bit suspicious. “I'm sorry,” I said. “If you want to tattle to the Clave about Camille draining humans, fine. I'm the new administration.” I took a step closer to Simon; if he wanted to play this game, I was more than up for it. He’d been a vampire for all a couple days; I was more than ready to spar with him.

“Yeah,” he said. I’d expected him to fold, but he looked more secure now. It set me on edge. “You could probably get over on them with that line, but you weren't exactly an innocent bystander in my case.”

Now the panic was rising. It felt like ice was settling over my body as I realized what he was doing.

He wasn’t just toying with me, he was _manipulating_ me.

“We agreed not to discuss that,” I said. He didn’t know _anything_ — he wasn’t conscious when I found him dead, when I carried him to the Institute, when I’d sat with his prostrate body flinching at every tiny noise, when I made sure that monster Clary Fairchild would keep him alive. He had no idea what I’d done for him, and now he was throwing it in my face as though it was evidence of my wrongdoing.

“Did we?” he asked, voice all stammering mock-innocence that made my skin crawl. “Funny, I can't really remember.” Then he turned to Clary. “Hey, did you ever tell the Clave what Camille did to me?”

I was a little desperate, a little pleading — not knowing what tactic would work on this _new_ Simon. He seemed dangerous — like he’d been around Clary so long that he was starting to act like her. “You can't. I'd be implicated.”

“Then help us,” _she_ said. I turned around slowly; I’d almost forgotten about her, and now that I remembered her, I realized how much I hated her. It didn’t feel melodramatic at all, just a natural progression. She stood there with a cool, calm look in her eyes. Simon had betrayed me for _her_ — and I didn’t even know then it wouldn’t be the last time — and I hated her for it. “Raphael, Jace will die without it.”

Of course she would pretend to be altruistic when it meant to her, but I had a whole world to protect that didn’t include Jace Wayland.

A bitter smile crept over my face. I shook my head and looked at Simon. “I can't believe you'd do this to me.” I looked back at Clary as I added, “Blackmail.”

“Save it,” Simon said dispassionately. “You're getting off easy.”

I shoulder-checked Simon on my way over the keypad for the blood cooler. Two nights ago, I’d wanted to tear a werewolf apart for doing the same thing, but now it seemed entirely warranted. I glanced back, and saw that Simon had made his way a few feet closer to Clary. I wondered if he thought I wouldn’t notice — as if I wouldn’t know exactly where his loyalties lied. _Still_ lie.

So I shielded the keypad as I typed. A day ago, I wouldn’t have felt the need to do so. I opened the drawer of blood before turning back with arms crossed. “What’s his blood type?”

“Go for type O,” he told me, before saying to Clary, “Universal donor.” I rolled my eyes as I turned back around. Clary was many things, but she wasn’t a moron — I didn’t know why he felt the need to explain that to her. I grabbed two bags and then locked the cooler back up again.

Before I even made my way over, Clary had her hands out for them. I wondered if she was already prepared to fight me for them, but I handed them over without comment. She let out a small sigh and thanked me, sounding sincere for once. I guess there was no reason not to be sincere when she got what she wanted. I nodded sourly and then she said, “Simon, let's go.”

Simon turned towards her, ready to go to her beck and call as always, but I put up my hand to stop him. “Yeah, yeah, not so fast.” He paused and looked at me, but didn’t seem too happy about it. “I like the way you handled yourself in this negotiation. Stick around.” I smiled, hoping it was more than a little threatening.

“I'm ambassador to the werewolves. It's very time-consuming.” His voice was unsure again, a welcome change from that horrifying but now a little impressive manipulation a minute ago.

“Let me take that burden off of your shoulders. As of now, you've been recalled. You're advisor to the interim chapter president.”

Simon sighed and opened his mouth, clearly ready to say something.

“Don't complain,” I said. “My new advisor has to stay here.”

Clary looked ready to kill — nothing new there — and Simon turned back towards her. “It's okay,” he assured her. “Just go. Really.”

“Thank you.” She wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek. It was rather intimate but I didn’t look away. It burned into my brain. “Both of you,” she added, and then she rushed out the door.

For a minute, all Simon could do was stare after her. He would choose her. Every time. And why wouldn’t he? She was soft and pretty and probably seemed like a rather decent person if you weren’t looking too hard.

“Is she your soulmate?” I asked; it was another childish thing, but I wanted to see what his face looked like.

Sure enough, he turned to me, looking like I’d just punched him in the face — which admittedly I’d considered more than once in the last ten minutes. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but she won’t tell me either way.”

“But you wish she was.” I was doing everything I could to keep my tone even.

He was still staring at the door as though he could still see her. “Yeah,” he said, and that one syllable felt like it stabbed me somewhere deep and irreparable. I gasped in a quiet breath and tried to memorize that soft look in his eyes.

The thought came to me, unimpeded: what was the point of him being my soulmate when I knew he would never look at me the way he looks at _her_.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “If you have time to stay out until daylight, I guess we have time to get another hour of training in before it’s time to sleep.”

* * *

_Simon_

All my self-loathing from that past night was just a painful bruise that I wasn’t about to push on to see if it still hurt.

Because I’d felt invincible earlier that day. I spent time with Luke, basically helped save the world, was shot about ten times, got myself declared dead, and even helped save a guy I hated — just like a real superhero, like I’m Luke Cage or something — and then? And then there was Raphael.

There seemed to be a fire burning under his gaze that there hadn’t been before. Of course, I could just be imagining it now, but I really think there was a certain fire that started right when Clary left. He and I worked on my reflexes, my enhanced senses, and my fighting skills — which in hindsight seems like probably just an excuse to knock me on my ass — and so by the time he said I could go back to my room, I’d never been more tired.

Meanwhile, _he_ looked unfazed, unbothered, completely unaffected other than that glint of intensity that barely registered as I was rubbing my back and pretending to nurse wounds when my only real affliction was exhaustion.

“Go to sleep,” he said unceremoniously, strolling past me. I followed along in a much less dignified way, wondering why he constantly went so hot and cold on me — one second, he was complimenting me on my negotiation skills, and the next second he was berating me. I was too tired to wonder, but still awake enough to be annoyed. I thought about whether or not I wanted to fight what was sure to be a losing battle — he was an immovable object if ever there was one — or if I wanted to sleep, and ultimately I decided to sleep. His door closed with a decisive _click_ that felt ice cold even then.

I stumbled through my door and flicked on the light, stopping abruptly. There — right _there_ , right in the corner of the room — was a white Telecaster sitting on a stand, looking shiny and new and beautiful. I blinked once, then twice, and then a grin broke out on my face.

Hot and cold indeed.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Raphael?” I asked under my breath. I ran my hand over the strings lightly, even the tiniest noise it emitted making me stand up a little straighter, feel a little stronger.

I felt happy and shitty at the same time. Happy that he’d done this — and wracking my brains trying to figure out how he knew — and shitty because I’d treated _him_ shitty for not letting me go with Clary, for resisting his training. Because for a few hours it had seemed like I could be a normal person who just had a severe allergy to the sun and some annoying dietary restrictions, instead of the actual vampire he was trying to teach me to be. For a few hours I thought that could be a decent kind of life, when he was trying to get me to stop hiding.

I sat down on my bed and pulled the guitar into my lap, not doing much more than gazing admiringly at it and occasionally plucking a string.

For the first time, it felt almost like this could be home.

-

Here’s the thing.

_Yes,_ I woke him up the previous night because I wanted to play video games, and _yes,_ I’d maybe kinda sorta blackmailed him into giving Clary some bags of human blood, but _yes_ was the answer I quickly decided on after an hour of tossing and turning. Yes _,_ I was going to interrupt his sleep again. But I really didn’t want to be alone anymore.

In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t most considerate.

I knocked on his door and then immediately poked my head in. “I’m having nightmares,” I lied gracefully.

He sat up with a low groan, rubbing at his face before narrowing his eyes at me. It was readily apparent that he’d been in a deep sleep, but instead of feeling guilty, I was a little giddy over how he looked. I’d seen him when I had woken him up the day before, but it felt different then. The soft waves of his usually rigidly-gelled hair, the oversized shirt with sleeves that ran almost to the tips of his fingers, the frown that was all fire and no carefully controlled condescension. He seemed so _real_. I don’t know how it didn’t register to me that I was attracted to him then — I can’t imagine what I would do if he ever let me see him like that _now_.

“You were _just_ playing the guitar,” he said coldly, but then yawned.

“That was an _hour ago_ , Raphael, I’ve had plenty of nightmares since then.”

He stared at me for a minute, but when I didn’t back down, he asked slowly, “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I wanna sleep in here.”

He glanced at the ceiling and said something in quick Spanish that I was sure was damning me to some sort of eternal hellfire, and then he said, “Sleep on the floor, Fledgling.”

I ran back to my room and grabbed the comforter off my bed. His eyes followed me constantly but completely devoid of expression as I laid the blanket down next to his bed and nested myself inside. By the time I was done, he was already lying back down with his eyes that were just _barely_ open — it made me wonder if he was hoping I wouldn’t notice that he was still watching me so carefully. I settled deeper into my covers, wondering if it was worth sacrificing a comfortable bed for someone’s company, but I heard him let out a soft breath and suddenly I was glad for it. I felt like the last man on earth in my room.

“Thanks for the guitar,” I whispered.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

“How did you know?”

“You told me.”

“I don’t remember that.” I tried to filter through the million pointless things I’d said to him since I came to the Hotel, but nothing came to mind.

“I do.”

I let the silence sit for a couple minutes before I asked, “Do you always sleep in long sleeves?”

“I run cold.”

I’d laughed then. But now? Now I realize what a fucking liar he was. I wish I had retained any moral high ground to be pissed that he lied to be for so long.

Then he leaned over his bed and looked at me, and I met his eyes silently. I felt a quiet challenge in his gaze, but I couldn’t pinpoint it then. Now, I could venture a few guesses.

“You should’ve let me sleep in your bed,” I said, purposely sounding petulant, just wondering how he would react.

“Go back to your room, then.” There was no bite to his voice; it almost sounded soft.

“With all the monsters? No way.”

I thought I heard him give a quiet chuckle, but I must’ve been imagining it.

-

I woke up and he was there.

Like: _right there._

I’d seen him just woken up twice now, but I’d never seen him _asleep_. Until then. Before the shock fully set in, I was enthralled. His face was just a foot away from mine, his wavy hair knotted up on _my_ pillow, his body arced just so towards _me_ , his face smooth and calm — I hadn’t realized how tense and guarded he’d always seemed until I saw him like that. He told me before that he’d been turned when he was twenty, which I’d found hard to believe until that moment. He’d always seemed so mature, jaded, holier-than-thou. It had never been so apparent that he was worth a million dollars and I was in the bargain bin.

I blinked and felt breathless, just looking at him.

I suddenly realized that my hand was resting just above his hip. We’d managed to be under this blanket together — I could even feel one of his feet brushing against mine. Every muscle in my body tensed — if I moved, I’d wake him, and then he’d make sure I went from undead to _dead_.

It took a couple shallow breaths until I realized I hadn’t crawled into bed with him — _he’d_ crawled into my blanket pile on the floor with _me_. That made me relax a little — at least I hadn’t done anything wrong — but I was still confused.

Maybe he’d fallen down here in the middle of the night — off that king-sized bed… Okay, so not the most likely.

Or…

Did he like me?

Did he _like_ me?

I felt like a fifth-grader just thinking like that, but it’d certainly crossed my mind before that he didn’t exactly seem straight. Of course, _I_ was the one who was more than a little comfortable wrapped up in a blanket with another guy, so—

I bolted up. My hand snapped off him; my heart would’ve been going a mile a minute and my face would’ve been beet red if I had the ability to be either of those things. I breathed in a gulp of air, but with my enhanced senses I could just smell his _blood_ and it smelled _good_. Needless to say, it didn’t help. I looked at him as I headed straight for the door; he was sleeping there soundly, and I couldn’t do anything but let out a sigh as I left the room.

What I’d give to wake up next to him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that next chapter you'll find out how Raphael ended up sleeping next to Simon. 
> 
> That scene where Simon asks to sleep in Raphael's room is an homage to episode 3x01 of a show called Please Like Me, an LGBT Australian show that's one of my all-time favorites. Highly recommended if anyone is looking for an awesome show to keep you busy during the Shadowhunters hiatus!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the positive response!


	7. Instability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the couple previous ones, but next chapter is The Big One, so look out for that in the next week or two!

_Raphael_

By the time I woke up — for the second time that night — he was gone. I tried not to think of anything that seemed poetic at first but then hit me with that nauseating cliché feeling, like how the blankets surrounding me felt cold. But I pulled the covers all the way over my head and let out a quiet but frustrated groan that I wouldn’t have allowed had he been around.

I’d thought of myself as weak more times in the past three days than I had in the entire course of my eighty-plus years of life. But it was warranted.

The first time I’d woken up in the middle of the night — well, middle of the day, to be technical — he had been sleeping there soundly, blanket pulled all the way up over his chin, curled up on his side. And I felt it: a flash of wanting him. I wanted people so infrequently and usually so dully it was more like an afterthought, so when I wondered what it would feel like with him next to me — and I _wanted_ him next to me — I slid out of bed and down beside him.

I was half-asleep and hazy. How many excuses can I provide for my behavior? I was weak, I was stupid, I’d heard far too much about the whole soulmate thing that maybe it finally weaved its way all through my subconscious so when I looked, the only color I could see was _him_. So I laid down.

For a tense beat, I wondered if he’d woken up. But he hadn’t, so I relaxed and pulled some of his blanket over myself, too.

I could feel him next to me. His curly hair was matted, he gave out tiny sleeping fidgets, and his hand eventually made its way to my waist, and I was struck by the comforting feeling of him being _there_. Someone’s presence had never felt _warm_ before. I tried to keep myself sane by wondering why he’d shown up to my room in the first place, full of stupid excuses about nightmares and monsters — as if that wasn’t what the two of us were, every second of the day — but I found I didn’t particularly care at that moment. I closed my eyes, feeling his hand resting over my shirt, smelling his blood in the air, hearing the occasional soft breath. And I felt calm. I felt right.

I was half-asleep. My brain was hazy. I liked Simon Lewis.

I was fucked, but I was half-asleep and couldn’t even bring myself to be angry about it.

-

“So Clary and Jace are…” —he paused for dramatic effect— “siblings.”

I froze. He’d barreled into the hotel with a full grin on his face, unable to sit still or stop talking. By the time he finally calmed down enough to string a coherent sentence together, I certainly wouldn’t have expected _this_. His face seemed to indicate that this was the most wonderful news anyone had ever relayed, quite at odds with the sinking feeling in my stomach as the implications of his statement finally reached me.

“Oh?” I asked in a small voice that sounded dead to my own ears, but it didn’t even seem to register to him.

A smirk pulled at his lips, his brown eyes looked utterly dazzled — there was no other word for it — and his hands were slightly extended as though his excitement was literally radiating from him. “ _Brother and sister_ , Raphael, can you fucking believe it? What a fucking soap opera! Long lost brother who she wanted to fuck and now—”

“And now you have a chance,” I finished.

He shrugged with nonchalance that could only be born of absolute faith in his future. It hit me in the face harder than all his excited half-stammers. It was far, far worse than the wide grin he’d come in here with. Now, there was a cocky half-smile playing at his lips. I shook my head to shake off my imagined blow and then forced a small smile onto my face. I wouldn’t let him be the last man standing.

“She’s known you for, what, fifteen years? And Jace for maybe two weeks? It all adds up.”

His smile faltered for a second and I felt a brief flash of vindication. The aftertaste of it felt childish and bitter, but that moment of relief was just enough to calm me down. I looked away from his wide brown eyes, tried not to listen as he frantically tried to explain that he wasn’t happy that she was unhappy or anything—

His words poured off me like rain on an umbrella, and I tuned him out as I walked to the other side of the room.

“Well, um,” he said, after a minute of silence, “I just wanted to tell you. So that you’re like, up on the gossip, or… whatever.”

I forced a chuckle and walked back over to him, giving him a perfunctory pat on the shoulder as I passed. My skin tingled where it touched him, but I tried not to think about it. “Good luck, and make sure you send me a wedding invitation,” I threw behind me like my words were a knife instead of evidence of just how far into this hell I’d fallen. Then I walked out of the room.

It was easier to pretend to be normal when I wasn’t in the same room as him. When his brown eyes didn’t pull mine to his like gravity. When I couldn’t smell the scent of his blood in the air. When I couldn’t hear his quick, silly voice that I somehow craved when he wasn’t around.

I straightened my back, breathed in clean air. I was a vampire king, for God’s sake — Interim Chapter President, to be technical — and I had a million things to do besides wonder if Simon would ever give up his crush on that girl.

* * *

_Simon_

Okay, in hindsight maybe sprinting over to Raphael and excitedly telling him that Clary and Jace were siblings wasn’t my _best_ or most _sensitive_ move, and sure I thought he reacted weirdly to the news, but at the time I thought it was better to err on the side of not-thinking-a-guy-is-into-me.

The thing was: After waking up next to Raphael and being more than a little not opposed at all, I’d been maybe a little bit toying with the idea that I might not be a grade-A heterosexual like I’d previously assumed. That was my state of my mind when I went to the Jade Wolf at sunset, only to have Luke tell me that news about Clary and Jace. So any sexuality crisis had been rendered a moot point — because this was a _sign_. It wasn’t a soulmark or anything, but it was just as good. I knew God was smiling on me.

I just wanted a sign, for fuck’s sake. Everyone else got soulmarks and soulmates and all I got were three little words that everyone said to me all the time anyway and a bad case of immortality that made me more than a little conscious of the fact that maybe I could have to wait _decades_ for a soulmate. _Centuries_ , even.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t like I fucking knew he was hiding in plain sight.

Besides, back then I had no definitive proof it wasn’t Clary. Technically. Sure she avoided the issue like someone was trying to drop an anvil on her head in an old cartoon, and sure I’d seen her arm about a million times since we turned eighteen, but it was still _possible_. She could’ve been really skilled at makeup. She could’ve been a wildcard — and then me saving her from being without a soulmate would be nothing but the _most_ romantic. Luke was a wildcard, after all, and that didn’t stop him from calling Jocelyn his soulmate. He’d even gotten what would’ve been his soulmark tattooed on his arm.

Growing up around _that_ , how could anyone doubt true love?

So what I’m saying is: Maybe asking Raphael to borrow a suit to attend Alec’s wedding with Clary was for sure a dick move, but it wasn’t like my intentions were bad.

It was theoretically innocuous, anyway. I appeared in the doorway of that room where he was always doing some kind of nondescript but highly important work, and I said without preamble, “Can I borrow a suit?”

“For what?” he asked without looking up. I’d already borrowed a jacket from him before; he’d all but insisted that I _look decent_ and _change out of that stupid shirt for fuck’s sake_ (his words, not mine).

“Alec Lightwood is getting married.”

He looked at me abruptly, eyebrows rising. “To a _woman_?”

I tilted my head, trying to figure out if I imagined that inflection or not. Eventually I decided that it was an innocuous statement — a wildly incorrect guess, I now know — and explained, “Lydia Branwell, some Clave-approved soldier or something, who knows. But Clary invited me, so—” I tried not to grin too much, but _Clary invited me on a date_. I’m impressed I managed not to shout it from the Hotel roof.

“Ah, your big opportunity,” he said with a dryness that felt like a punch in the face, even though I had no idea then what I’d done to deserve it. I tried not to let it get to me.

“Is it, like, against the rules to date a Shadowhunter?”

“You aren’t _dating_ Clary Fairchild.”

“Well no—”

“Yes, you can borrow a suit,” he interrupted. “I’ll bring you a few choices I approve of, but if you damage them in any way, that will be the end of your immortal life.”

I was going to get whiplash, just talking to Raphael Santiago.

-

I hadn’t talked to Raphael since he brought in about twenty suits for me to choose from — _should be a sufficient selection_ , he said, and I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he must’ve had at least ten times that many. I picked out a simple black one, but when I tried to find him for his approval and expertise, he was nowhere. I didn’t think much of it, assuming that he was doing some sort of official vampire business I still wasn’t privy to. So when Isabelle came in later to ask questions about bachelor parties, I was relieved when she gave me her approval of the suit. I preened a little at her compliments, maybe flirted a little — I was back to being convinced of my heterosexuality, and I went to the Lightwood-Branwell wedding feeling that invincible feeling that only comes when you’re chasing down destiny.

I saw Clary as soon as I walked into the room. As if I hadn’t been anticipating enough magical things from seeing her, literally walking down an aisle towards her certainly made me feel it even more. Destiny, fate, a beautiful girl waiting for me. It seems a little reductive now, but I felt like some kind of Prince Charming then.

She complimented my suit; I watched as her eyes flickered over me, unable to stop myself from reading into it. I’d _wanted_ to read into it. I grinned and hugged her, tossing off some line about _embracing the new me_.

I was the picture of cool.

Maybe it wasn’t really the new me. I mean, I guess it was in that I’d never before had Raphael around to borrow designer suits from, but now I realize I was just clinging to being the old me. The kind of guy who wanted nothing more than Clary Fray: my soulmate, the girl next door, the ultimate trophy. That simple-minded prick who thought destiny really was that simple.

I glared at Jace as I hugged her, staking my claim. God, I was a real dick. I could barely manage a perfunctory question about Jocelyn, that’s how caught up I was in my imagined love triangle.

-

When Magnus first burst into the room, I was confused. And even though I’m apparently at least a little more dense than the average person, looking back and forth at the intense stares that Magnus and Alec were exchanging made everything fall into place.

I think I even gasped. Here I was, searching for whatever scrap of fate I could wring out of the frustrating situation I was in — not realizing, of course, that Raphael was suffering through the real thing — but Magnus busting in and saving Alec from himself? That was a real fairytale. Suddenly it occurred to me that mine might be just a pale imitation.

I couldn’t look between them fast enough. The thrill of anticipation went up my spine, Clary met my eyes with concern on her face, I strained to listen as Maryse tried to dismantle the situation, and then when Alec went back up the aisle towards Magnus… well, it was like time stood still when they kissed. I don’t know if I’ve ever grinned so wide. I’d seen a million movies and nothing compared to that.

“They’re soulmates?” I hissed to Clary when they finally pulled away from each other.

“I think so,” she said. She didn’t sound quite so impressed.

“They _must_ be.”

-

I ran up to them as soon as the crowd subsided. Neither of them understood as I rambled on and on about _The Graduate_ — which was really their loss — but that certainly wasn’t unusual. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t contain myself. I’d never seen anything like that before — my favorite movie played out in front of me.

My favorite movie played out in front of me — but with _two guys_.

And it didn’t seem so bad. It didn’t seem weird. It seemed normal, actually. Better than normal. _Perfect_.

The idea had made its way into my brain, and seeing them together and happy only made it worse. Or better, depending on what mood I was in. I guess that’s why all those articles say representation is important and how there should be an all-female _Ghostbusters_ or whatever. It’d seemed kind of silly before.

So right then? The memory of being attracted to Raphael a few hours ago didn’t seem so bad.

But I _knew_ Clary was my soulmate. I knew I was supposed to be with her. My head was spinning and I couldn’t make sense of anything other than the fact that Magnus and Alec had kissed and it had been _great_ — certainly nothing in my life had ever compared.

 _Gay_ and _straight_ sounded so black and white, now that I was thinking about it. Maybe being a shade of grey wouldn’t be so bad.

But that didn’t really make anything any simpler.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume that the show takes place in August 2016, but I suppose there could be an argument that it's August 2015. Either way, _Ghostbusters_ is still a reference Simon would make.
> 
> My Shadowhunters podcast with my best friend/beta reader Hannah:  
> [iTunes](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2)  
> [Spreaker (If you aren't into iTunes)](https://www.spreaker.com/show/shadowcasterss-show).  
> [Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ)
> 
> (P.S. Happy birthday to my favorite morally ambiguous ginger, Clary Fairchild!)


	8. Volatility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

_Simon_

I wasn’t sure how I’d done it. I came home from the wedding and regaled Raphael with the story of Magnus and Alec at great length. He’d looked vaguely interested for the first two minutes, but after about thirty minutes — that may or may not have devolved into an in-depth analysis of _The Graduate_ — he tried to extricate himself. I admittedly might have been a little pushy when I convinced him that I’d only let him leave if he watched a movie with me before bed, but even then he’d only consented when I suggested _American Graffiti_.

(I suggested roughly twenty-five movies before we landed on that one, including but not limited to _Revenge of the Sith, Wreck-It Ralph, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Breakfast Club, A Single Man, Fellowship of the Ring_ extended version _, 10 Things I Hate About You, Back to the Future,_ a couple episodes of _Jessica Jones_ , and that one movie with the giant ants that kill people. So naturally I wondered what made _American Graffiti_ something he would actually agree to.)

So there I was, in his bedroom for the third day in a row, but this time I was — finally — in his bed. I tried not to be too giddy about it, not just because I was probably dangerously close to being kicked out, but because I certainly wasn’t questioning my sexuality because of Clary.

He had a nice, dark grey upholstered headboard that I leaned against as the movie wore on. I’d seen it a million times before — George Lucas! Harrison Ford! — and there was something about Raphael’s face as he watched the movie that was almost hypnotic. Quiet, soft, expressive, nostalgic — I could barely look away. It was different than usual, considering he usually was on the very short spectrum that went from annoyed to impassive.

“How old were you then?” I asked, looking at him with an intensity I would’ve been embarrassed about if his eyes weren’t glued to the screen.

“I was already undead then.”

“But—”

“But younger than I am now, if that’s what you mean.”

I frowned at his vague answer, wondering if it was just a vampire thing not to reveal your age. I started again, “What I mean is — well, you experienced it, didn’t you? That whole culture — that whole life — you were probably out every night—”

“I was,” he interrupted, meeting my gaze.

“Did you… like it?”

He blinked and his eyes slid away from mine for the smallest fraction of a second before he said, “Being nocturnal never felt so _normal_.” And I could see it, just from this movie — the entire movie took place during one night, and how he would blend in with that kind of life.

I swallowed some air awkwardly — thrown off by that statement for no comprehensible reason — before I guessed, “And you’ve seen this movie before.”

“Yes.” He looked away and I studied his profile — _objectively gorgeous_ , was the silly thought I had before I looked away, too. His voice, too, was smooth and satin and velvet — I couldn’t think of the right word but even the way he said _yes_ made me a little flustered.

“You love it?”

“Yes.” His voice was even quieter this time.

“Harrison Ford, probably, right?” I asked, sneaking a look at him again, but his expression didn’t change at all.

“He’s barely in the movie—”

“Are you—” I started to blurt the question out before I stopped myself and the wheels turned in my head trying to find a better way to phrase it. “Are you, like, um, an _Alec Lightwood_ type?”

He met my eyes again, looking utterly baffled for a second until realization seemed to settle over him and he scoffed. It was pretty close to a laugh and I would’ve felt pleased with myself if I weren’t half-embarrassed and one hundred percent burning with curiosity. “You’re completely ridiculous,” he said, but he sounded more than a little amused. “Is that what we’re calling being gay these days?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but I could only force a half-shrug and half-nod, feigning all kinds of nonchalance that was probably about as transparent as glass. It was stupid, but if he said no, then I’d be in the midst of this sexuality crisis for nothing.

“Yes,” he said. We stared at each other for a long second and then he clarified, “I’m gay, yes.”

I let out a long breath.

“We can’t all be straight,” he said in a tone that felt like a challenge but his voice was so soft I thought maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was just in so far deep that every word he said felt like a confrontation to any last remnants of heterosexuality I was clinging to.

“Maybe we all aren’t,” I said vaguely before immediately turning away. I would’ve been blushing furiously red if I still could. I felt like my heart was going a hundred miles an hour, except for how I knew for a fact it was dead. Even the half-admission was terrifying to say out loud. After a minute, I snuck a peek back at Raphael but he was staring at the screen, looking all kinds of aloof. It suddenly felt cold and I shivered.

I sighed softly.

I guess saying it out loud didn’t make the world end like I kind of thought it might.

The movie went on. The cheerful early-sixties music did wonders at helping me calm down. After just a couple more minutes, I was back to giving Raphael my running commentary, and he didn’t even look angry. I guess it must’ve been subconscious, but by about the halfway point we were sitting only about six inches apart despite the fact that we’d started out on opposite sides of his king-sized bed.

“What was your favorite decade?”

“I’m hoping the 2020’s will be up to my standards,” he said, a little playfully. I laughed but felt a wave of exhaustion come over me. I’d hatched a wild romantic scheme and chased after it. I’d never felt so close to Clary as I had last night, but locked up in a room with a vampire king and a movie set in 1962? She didn’t seem to matter quite so much, like I wasn’t the real Simon Lewis but instead some kind of identical twin. One who was a little smarter, or at least a little less desperate.

Or, at least, maybe that’s just what I had to tell myself because I was in bed with a guy. Not sexually, obviously, but with a level of comfort that was certainly outside of some sort of norm. I propped the pillow to give us a tiny bit of careful space, and then I curled myself up. I looked up at him, and he was staring at me again, mouth open so slightly I might’ve been imagining it.

(It’s hard to know right now which parts I’m recontextualizing to be _correct_ — now that he’s finally given me some fucking context — and what parts I’m making up in my head. I’m not asking for much, but I still wouldn’t mind a grand romance. I guess maybe I haven’t changed much.)

“Tired?” he asked quietly, but it felt like electricity down my spine.

“Yeah.”

“We can finish the movie tomorrow.” He moved towards the remote, but I snatched it first and held it to myself protectively.

“No way. You agreed, so we’re watching this till the bitter end.” A sound came out of him that might’ve been a laugh, but just as easily could’ve been a scoff. I pretended it was the former. “We haven’t even seen Harrison Ford’s car blow up yet,” I added.

“He really is _such_ a minor character.”

I unlatched one of my hands from the remote to wave dismissively at him. I didn’t know how he could be so blasé about it. _Everyone_ has a crush on Harrison Ford; he practically made sexuality irrelevant.

“I like that guy better,” Raphael told me, unprompted, a little farther into the movie, when ‘that one guy’ was talking to Harrison Ford. I rolled my eyes a little and looked up at him to argue the point, but I paused as I met his eyes. They were wide and _happy_ and honestly just beautiful even if I was half-dead from sleep.

“Do you have a soulmate, Raph?” I asked suddenly, very quietly. I didn’t even mean to — the words just slipped out because I was so tired. The nickname wasn’t intentional either, but I liked the way it sounded — familiar like we’d traveled a million miles together instead of just knowing each other a few days. I guess it was kind of true. We’d lived a whole lifetime together, in a way. At least, from my own perspective. I guess maybe it didn’t mean as much for him.

“I’m not a wildcard, if that’s what you mean.”

He’d taken a long time to answer the question, but I assumed it was just because I was asking a rather taboo question. My pillow was practically against his lap by this point, Harrison Ford had finally gotten into that car wreck, it was sunrise in the movie and probably midday in the real world. My eyelids were heavy but I wanted to stay awake.

A while later — I couldn’t possibly tell you how long — the remote was being pulled from my hands, but gentle fingers were doing so. I consented quickly. “Do you ever sleep in your own bed?” he asked.

Then I remembered the question I asked that he avoided. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Go to sleep.”

The thought came to me — it was an obvious idea that somehow hadn’t occurred to me until I was nearly asleep. “What were the first words you said to me?” I asked.

I’m not sure if he ever answered. I fell asleep the next second. When I woke up, it seemed like a silly question.

I wonder how different things would’ve been if he’d told me the truth right then.

* * *

_Raphael_

He’d been inching closer and closer to me all night. It had made it a little more difficult to be normal, but I reminded myself about his love-struck words about Clary Fairchild and it wasn’t impossible to pretend not to want him even closer.

The movie ended, but I was fairly certain he was asleep — or at least close to it. His pillow had gradually made its way until it was pushed against my thigh, his dark hair was wild against the pillow, and I could tell that his eyes were closed. The greatest evidence that he was asleep was the fact that he hadn’t said a word about the movie in a few minutes.

I let out a sigh of relief, glad that I had not-so-skillfully evaded his question about whether or not I had a soulmate. It had been jarring but not terrifying.

When the movie was over, I leaned down and pulled the remote from his fingers, surprised that he gave very limited resistance.

“Do you ever sleep in your own bed?” I muttered, glad that he was too far gone to pay attention to the tone of my voice. It sounded too soft even to my own ears.

“Why won’t you tell me?” he asked, and suddenly evading his question didn’t seem quite so impressive. If he were more awake, I feared that he would be like a bloodhound trying to find out. Luckily, he seemed too tired to be his usual annoying self.

“Go to sleep.”

Then he asked.

“What were the first words you said to me?”

If I had a beating heart, it would’ve stopped. As it was, it felt frozen. His voice was slow and sleepy, and for a second I didn’t know if I had imagined his words. But they filtered through me, into my consciousness, and I knew he had really asked.

And I thought about telling him.

I looked down at him, his head was nearly on my lap, his hair so close I could’ve reached out to run my fingers through it. His left arm was thrown out onto the bed. I could read his soulmark easily — _please stop talking_ — and for a second I felt those words rising in my throat. How would it feel to say them, now, when I felt warm and comfortable and happy? I knew from experience that those were fleeting emotions but they had begun to feel more and more permanent when I was around him.

His eyes remained closed, and I burned with curiosity about what he would say if I told him. And if he asked me, that meant that he might feel this too — that he might _want_ it to be me. He’d been chasing after Clary all night but maybe he finally realized it was nothing more than a fantasy. Maybe. There were a million maybes, and sure I wasn’t optimistic by nature, but it seemed possible that one of them could be real.

Without even knowing anything about fate, he might have chosen to want me.

As I looked down at his face, I wondered how it would feel to love him. I wondered if I was already there. He looked asleep, and I wasn’t sure if he would even hear me if I answered his question.

But what would he look like if I said it? Would he look at me, horrified and disgusted? Or would his eyes open quickly, would he scramble up, would his eyes be blown wide with happiness and shock and wonder? Maybe I would laugh because he still looked tired, maybe he would say some trashy and cliché line from a romance novel. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but maybe I’d be _happy_. In a few minutes, he’d surely be mad that I concealed it from him, but I could clearly imagine him: soft, playfully angry, so excited that all exhaustion was forgotten, hands on either side of my face, a wide grin on his own, _don’t do it again_ on his lips.

Maybe he’d kiss me. Maybe I wouldn’t mind.

 _Please stop talking_ : The words burned at my throat, itching to get out. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see _him_. But I fought it off with the very last remnants of my shredded willpower.

“Go to sleep,” I said again softly.

Back then, I thought I still had time.

-

Simon burst into the room at the same second Stan did. The latter raised his eyebrows at me as though waiting for some indication I wanted him to forcibly remove the unwanted fledgling. I waved a hand dismissively, meeting Simon’s eyes as he stopped about a foot away from me.

“Anything else, Stan?” I asked. Stan was in my peripheral vision, but I was unable to even glance away from Simon. His brown eyes were steady on mine, and he was fidgeting just a little in a way that made me convinced that he was anxiously waiting for our bystander to leave.

“The Fairchild girl is here to see you, accompanied by one of the Lightwoods,” Stan said.

Simon broke his stare to look back as soon as he heard Clary’s surname. My eyes narrowed and I took a couple steps away, no longer feeling the same warm intensity. “Send them up,” I told Stan. I watched as he closed the door behind him, and I kept my eyes trained on the door as I asked Simon, “Why are they here?”

“Where have you _been_ all day?”

“I have plenty of work to attend to,” I said, looking back at him now that I was more composed. His eyes flickered all over my face, and I found that I didn’t like his scrutiny. “As you could possibly imagine, Camille didn’t leave her required documentation in the best shape. Unfortunately, my job description isn’t just babysitting the newest fledgling.”

“So you locked me in a room with Stan and Lily?”

“I’m sure they gave you plenty of valuable training.”

“Is this because — because I fell asleep in your, uh, room again?” he asked quietly, stumbling over the sentence. Then he was the one who couldn’t make eye contact.

“I’m wondering when you’re going to ask to just move your bed in.” I tried to be a little cavalier, just to sidestep his intensity.

“I think there’s plenty of room in yours,” he shot right back, looking up at me through his eyelashes.

I hadn’t realized that he was so close until that moment. We were no more than a foot apart, there was barely any differential in our heights, he gradually leaned closer like there was some sort of gravitational pull, and I took a breath just to feel the scent of his blood wash all over me — down to my lungs. Someday I would drown in him.

“I don’t get it,” he whispered.

“What?” I said, my voice dropping too. I was too susceptible to getting swept up in him.

“…Anything.”

I sighed and took a step away, just in time for the door to fling open. He stared at me for a full second before we both looked at the intruders.

And intruders they were.

They came in like an army. It was just Clary Fairchild and the Lightwood girl, but just the fact that Clary — a battalion all on her own — felt the need for backup made sirens go off in my brain; I hadn’t realized earlier because of the constant distraction that was Simon Lewis. Stan and a couple other vampires were milling about now, trying to look extraneous but I knew they were watching carefully. I tried to keep my composure — hard when I could feel Simon’s eyes on me — and I said lightly, “Shadowhunters, you don’t feel the need to do a lot of Shadow _hunting_.”

Isabelle laughed a little, her painted red lips opening to a grin. She was nothing but skin-tight leather — maybe it would distract a different man than me. It was easy to feel normal again, just looking at her. “There’s more to the job than killing demons,” she said, in precise offhand tone I’d tried and failed to use on Simon.

 _That didn’t stop you from killing six of my people_ , I almost said, but Clary chimed in matter-of-factly, “We need to talk to Camille. We know you have her here, we tracked her to the DuMort.” No nonsense unless the nonsense could massacre someone.

“It’s true, but I’m afraid she’s a bit tied up at the moment.” I allowed myself to smile at my own pun, as always comfortable with the upper hand until Clary could find some way to weasel herself back to the top. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Just a second,” Simon said to them. He nudged my arm to turn me around, and I acquiesced. “Look,” he whispered, “I know this sounds crazy, but we have to let them talk to Camille. She has a spellbook that could wake up Jocelyn Fairchild. Valentine might have the Cup — the entire Downworld’s in danger.”

I was shaking my head, frowning. “She’s far too dangerous. Or did you already forget what happened the last time you _talked_ to her?” Of course he did; I felt like nothing but unhealed wounds and battle-scars, but he seemed to have made it through the last few weeks completely unscathed outside of his transformation. It didn’t seem possible, but the clear, unapologetic look in his eyes only reaffirmed that notion.

“It’s not like she can kill me again.”

“You said it yourself — if Valentine has the Cup, the entire Downworld is at risk. Camille will only make things worse.” I turned around first, for once not giving into him. I met Clary’s narrowed eyes. “I’ll bring you what’s left of Camille’s things, but speaking to her is out of the question.”

“ _Her things_?” Clary scoffed. “This isn’t the kind of book she would’ve just left sitting around.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

“We’re supposed to be allies.”

 _Allies,_ she says, when she just wants pawns. “And we are. But Shadowhunters have no business interfering with the Night Children’s affairs. You may look to the Clave for justice, but the vampires look to _me_. Camille stays where she is.”

“You’re making a huge mistake,” she said, a small smile on her face fading into a harsh glare. She wasn’t just ready to start a war, she was already planning on leaving no survivors.

-

Only Simon could be told I was gay, but within twenty-four hours still decide that Isabelle Lightwood would be the best way to distract me. I went along with it for a minute, as always amused by his idiosyncrasies and idiocy — I was too naïve then to predict his betrayal — but when Isabelle tried to attack me with her whip, I evaded her easily.

Shadowhunters’ superiority complex will always blind them to what vampires can do.

But I guess she wasn’t the only one blind to reality that morning.

I could slip through the hotel faster than any of them. I grabbed a few other vampires as backup and went to intercept Simon. His voice trickled to me, as always — he was talking about escape plans and tunnels, as though he’d actually learned something.

“Going somewhere?” I asked when we were finally in the same room. He looked terrified, which was at least momentarily satisfying.

I was angry enough at the sight of Camille behind him. It had taken decades of painstaking work to be able to capture her the _right_ way, but he and Clary felt that they were entitled to undo all of that work and suffering on a passing whim just because they could call it the moral high ground.

Then the thought skittered into my brain. Childishly. He’d rejected me over and over again — he’d chosen _Clary Fairchild_ over and over again, but it wasn’t until that second that I realized that he would’ve been fine without me. If Isabelle had grabbed me with her whip and killed me like she’d kill several other of my vampires, he might not even care. I might just end up a tiny blip in his memory.

I’d done everything for him — I’d saved him over and over again — but that might not even register to him. He’d torn up my moral code and I’d painstakingly reshaped it like an infinitely complex puzzle, just for him. And he didn’t even realize every time I chose _him_ was just another tear.

Maybe he and I weren’t so different after all. We were both idiots.

Camille shoved past them. “Raphael,” she spat.

“You should’ve stayed put,” I growled, the harsh reality of Camille’s presence shoving all the silly, petty soulmate thoughts from my brain.

She bared her fangs at me; _she_ was a threat. We’d only fed her enough to keep her barely alive, but she hadn’t changed much. As always, she was adaptable. She might be weak, but she still looked lethal. Even her voice made my skin crawl and my back tense up. I’d never been so ready for battle. Even though she’d been locked up for such a short time, I’d forgotten what that felt like — to constantly be in survival mode, constantly ready to be out for blood if necessary. Suddenly I was planning attack strategies most likely to end in her death. A game of chess without any rules.

And I hated it.

“I’m disappointed in you,” I said to Simon, looking away from her. I wouldn’t have, but I was surrounded by other vampires. I needed to meet his eyes, to watch as he looked away from me, obviously uncomfortable. My words could do nothing more than strike a nerve, but it was something.

“I — I guess it’s too late to put her back in the box?”

“I’m afraid so.” I wanted to look away from him, to be done with him. I hated Camille, but it was nothing like this; I’d always hated her, so these emotions were nothing new. But I’d _adored_ him — I watched movies with him, played a video game, bought him an expensive guitar, let him sleep in my bed, let him quickly and systematically tear down every one of my carefully built walls, and for what? So I could stare at him, hating his words on my arm not because I’d always found the whole soulmate concept fairly ridiculous, but because I’d stopped minding. If they were the words that came from his lips, it didn’t seem quite so awful.

I _loved_ him.

And I hated it.

And I turned away. I looked at Clary — she was an anchor if there ever was one; there was nothing but cold, hard reality, just looking at her. Then I started sauntering forward, pleased when all three of them retreated. “Our alliance is finished,” I told her. “The Accords may prohibit killing mundanes, but they say nothing about sunburned vampires. Simon’s betrayed us, just as Camille did.” I gave him a hard look, and he was stunned. He didn’t deserve to be so shocked. “They deserve the same fate. _Adios_.” I paused and glanced behind me, making sure I still had backup. “Kill them.”

The instant I said it, the words felt a little too real. I didn’t know if I would be able to see him torn apart in front of me, but then the room’s wall crashed open. I jumped back when I felt the burn of sunlight on my hand. I gripped my burned skin, baring my fangs, trying to withstand the pain without collapsing. I looked up, and she was a perfect silhouette in the bright morning sun.

“Seriously, guys?” Isabelle asked, strutting forward with a cocky grin on her face that I couldn’t help but admit was earned. I glared at all four of them, but I couldn’t move forward without dying. “Typical vampire, always underestimating a Shadowhunter.”

I bared my fangs and went to lunge, but I was still blocked. I was loath to admit defeat, especially when Isabelle waved her hand condescendingly. “ _Adios_ ,” she responded, turning back. One of my vampires went to cross that border, but I jumped in front of him. No one else was going to die because of the Shadowhunters.

Especially since we’d already lost.

-

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:13]  
_can I talk to you?_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:13]  
_please_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:14]  
_can I come to the hotel?_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:15]  
_I guess I could even call you_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:19]  
_can you at least answer me?_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:28]  
_just let me explain_

[To: Simon Lewis, 20:30]  
_Don’t come back here. Are you at the Institute?_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:30]  
_yeah_

[To: Simon Lewis, 20:31]  
_I’ll meet you outside of there in an hour._

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:32]  
_k_

[From: Simon Lewis, 20:32]  
_I’m sorry_

[From: Simon Lewis, 21:05]  
_I’m really really sorry_

-

Every time my phone had buzzed with a new text message, I just got angrier. Every _please_ and _sorry_ was a fresh stab-wound, just knowing that he cared only enough to try when the battle was already long lost. It filled my brain with what-if’s — maybe he and I weren’t so different after all — so I had steadfastly stared at my phone as his text messages kept appearing. Hating him, wanting him, wanting him to die.

But I stood outside of the Institute after the allotted hour, leaning against a tree and taking a deep breath. The night was quiet — I knew I was within the Shadowhunters’ wards, probably making a dozen warning sensors go off inside — and it reminded me of that time just a few days ago when I brought his lifeless body here to Clary Fairchild.

I’d thought I was too old to change.

He stepped out of the Institute. His eyes met mine instantly, a soft but scared look came over him, and he ran over. I examined him carefully; it had only been a few hours since he left, but he looked different. He looked tired, hungry, a little bit happy. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that didn’t look quite like his size; I wondered foolishly and jealously whose clothes he was wearing. The air I breathed in still smelled like him — just with the faint stench of angel blood all around.

I guess I had expected him to have the same dead look in his eyes that I had in mine when I had glanced at myself in the mirror earlier, but he certainly didn’t look damaged in the slightest. I frowned. Once again he went through something traumatic and came out the other side without even the faintest of scars.

All those _please_ and _sorry_ messages that appeared on my phone suddenly seemed like nothing more than an act. I’d been played by Simon Lewis too many times to fall for it again.

“Raphael—” he started.

“Did it work?” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Whatever you had planned that required Camille — did it work?”

“Uh… yeah, actually. We, uh, woke up Jocelyn. Jocelyn Fairchild. You know.” He shrugged and now a full grin was on his face, clearly proud. I’d seen that face once or twice during training. I’d enjoyed it then, but now I just felt my frown deepen and my stomach sink. “I mean, she’s like a second mother to me — not that my real mother isn’t great obviously — but I guess I don’t know how she would handle the whole vampire thing—”

“What did you have to pay her to get her to do what you wanted?”

“Jocelyn?”

“ _Camille_ ,” I snapped, annoyed at how distracted he was by his own accomplishments.

He averted his gaze. “Oh. Well, uh, I… I signed some kind of contract.”

And that was the end of any pretending to be casual. I rushed forward until I was directly in front of him. I almost started shaking all over; it was only decades of control that gave me any sense of composure “ _A Writ of Transmutation?_ ” I asked, words tasting like poison in my mouth, my voice low and cold only because I forced myself not to yell.

“Yeah.” He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced up into the night sky, not looking particularly concerned. “I guess maybe it _sounds_ bad, but we really needed this one spellbook and we knew Camille had it, and so she took us to her apartment. Turns out she didn’t know which book it was, so I guess it was kind of a trick — like, just technically — but Clary and I found it, so, I mean—”

“Simon,” I interrupted. He stopped dead and looked at me. “You signed a Writ of Transmutation?”

He nodded slowly.

“Do you know what this means?”

“I _had to_ , Raphael — we had to save Jocelyn—”

“You mean your precious Clary Fairchild had to save Jocelyn—” I hated the spiteful edge to my voice, but even I couldn’t control everything.

“Don’t talk about Clary that way—”

“ _You_ _betrayed us._ Again and again. And this time you _damned_ us.” My voice was reaching a hysterical pitch and his eyes widened but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. “Stealing Camille was bad enough, but don’t you understand? You absolved her from all crimes. She’ll be reinstated now — everything will go back to how it was. None of us will be safe anymore!”

“I mean, _you_ kind of _threatened to kill me_ , so maybe we’ve all made a couple mistakes, right?”

“You’ve fucked up the whole world. _My_ whole world. You don’t get it, _Fledgling_.” The name had been a term of endearment before, but now it was dripping with disdain. “After what we did to her, there’ll be an all-out _war._ And the Clave will be on her side — all the vampires outside of our chapter will be on her side — _everyone_ will on her side. _This was the worst thing you could’ve done._ ”

“You don’t get it, either, Raphael. I mean, Jocelyn can help destroy Valentine — especially after Jace—”

The childish bitterness and jealousy came out then: “You just did it because you want to fuck Clary.”

“ _Raphael!_ ” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out and making some kind of dismissive gesture. “Come on, Raphael—”

“You can pretend it’s altruism all you want, but admit that you wouldn’t have done it if anyone else asked.”

“That’s not—”

“Was she _grateful_?” He averted his eyes, looking guilty for the first time in the conversation. I laughed bitterly. “Ah, so she finally said yes?”

“No! Seriously, _no_. And anyway — I mean, what’s it matter? She’s my best friend — so what?”

I grabbed his left arm.

I gripped it tightly and pulled him closer to me. He stumbled forward, but I shoved my other hand onto his chest, making sure he didn’t get too close. He crashed into my hand, breath coming out in a gasp. His eyes were bulging now — terrified, confused. “Please stop talking,” I said coldly.

His arm was covered in a sleeve but I knew my hand was directly over his soulmarks. I could almost feel the words burning through the fabric. I gripped his arm even tighter — bruising pressure, wondering if it was even possible for him to feel the pain I was experiencing. He looked from my hand to my eyes, but he didn’t seem to have put it together yet.

“What?” he asked, more urgently this time. “ _Raphael_?”

“ _Please stop talking_ ,” I repeated, then I loosened my grip just enough to dig my fingernails into the sleeve of his shirt. I felt when my nails started to sink into his flesh, and I smelled blood instantly. It was a punch of too-concentrated pleasure — surprisingly so — and of me _wanting_ him, of me finally hitting the very depths of this hell he threw me into. I tore my hand away, the fabric of his sleeve coming with me. He watched in stunned, confused horror as I threw the scrap of cloth away.

Maybe he read something in my eyes, because his jaw dropped. I glanced down to see a streak of blood trickling over the words on his arm. When I looked back at him, his eyes were blown wide, his facial expression rapidly vacillating between shock and disbelief.

“It’s _you_?” he whispered, voice shaky.

“Me,” I agreed, turning to take a step away, but he reached out and grabbed me. In his haste he stumbled a little, but his grip was like iron on my wrist. Maybe he had learned something during training other than how to flirt with me.

“This whole time?” he asked.

I laughed quietly but bitterly. “Since before you were even alive.”

“But how long have you _known_?” His words were quick and desperate, as though he had a million more questions but each one required an answer before the next one. His eyes bored into mine, the underlying implication of every one of his syllables that I should answer _faster_ , _better_ , because he had more to ask.

“From the second I met you. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

“And you didn’t _tell_ me?” He was exasperated, but maybe a little charmed — just an undertone, but it was there — like maybe all of his problems had gone away with me saying those three little words. He didn’t care that there were five half-moon fingernail marks on his arm, each one dripping the smallest stream of blood, the physical mark of my anger — of how much I hated him.

No, he was probably thinking — like I was — about that movie yesterday, about that girl in the white Thunderbird the guy could chase after all night but never catch. A _maybe_ , a soulmate, a dream better than any reality of meeting her. That was all this had ever been to him. A soulmate, a contract to be happy forever — he was childish, stupid. He was looking at me with adoration that felt like a butcher knife decimating its way through my intestines. I loved him and he hadn’t even wanted to want me until fate told him to.

I’d been right to lie.

“I never wanted a soulmate,” I said, but I got several inches closer to him. He couldn’t look anywhere but my eyes, I felt his warm, rapid breaths against my face. Maybe he was having a panic attack but there was a half-smile playing at his lips as though he was expecting a kiss. For the briefest instant, I had to push the idea away, but then I repeated, “I never wanted a soulmate. But I never expected that it would be this bad.”

“What—?” The words sounded like nothing more than a breath of disbelief. The light went out of his face, as though his fairytale was turning into a nightmare.

“I never knew it would be _hell_.”

His eyes widened, but it took a second for the blow to land. He looked like I’d punched him — a minor injury compared to what he constantly inflicted upon me. “No, Raphael,” he gasped out, words barely audible but every one sounded pained. I pulled back, wrenching my arm from his grasp when he finally let his guard down. “No, seriously, Raphael—”

“I should at least warn you that I can’t stop anyone from killing you if you come back to the hotel,” I told him, back to being all-business despite the raw panic in his eyes.

“Please _—_ ”

“Don’t.”

“ _Raphael_ —” he started again, his voice halfway to a shout.

Then I was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to avoid any confusion: Raphael self-identifies as gay, but he’s specifically homoromantic grey-ace. His asexuality will possibly not be referenced directly but will be relevant in later chapters.
> 
> I promise this will end happily!


	9. Melancholy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t say it often enough, but thank you so much for all the reads and reviews! I don’t respond to the reviews because it would just be me gushing back at how grateful I am, but know that I read and appreciate every single review. Writing this chapter was particularly difficult for me and reading the responses to chapter 8 really helped me, so extra thanks this time around! :)

_Simon_

I’ve barely said a word since then.

That night, I had walked back into Institute and met Clary standing in the doorway, waiting for me. I knew she hadn’t heard anything, and her expression was still that shell-shocked look she’d had ever since Jace left. But when I met her eyes, her face softened just a little — it must’ve been something she saw in my own eyes. Something about that made me break down, and I started crying. I never stopped; I cried all night, curled up next to her, for once not even a little bit wanting her.

Missing him has taken over every part of me.

I sobbed out the essential information, but I haven’t said a word about it since. Sometimes I’m a little annoyed and sometimes I’m a little grateful — but mostly I can’t even bring myself to care — that the news seems to have spread around. Sometimes I hear the word _soulmate_ whispered around me, but maybe that’s just my demons haunting me. Every time it feels like a stab, even though it’s not like I could ever think about anything else anyway.

Now it’s been three days at the Institute. I’ve memorized the pattern of the stained glass in my room. Every day at noon I try to fall asleep, but I usually spend hours looking at the white ceiling, seeing patterns of dark, angry eyes staring back at me. I get an hour or two of fitful sleep and then choke down a glass of blood.

Once or twice I’ve thought about not eating, like a hunger strike or something, but I can visualize his annoyed sigh and disapproving glare and then I find myself not wanting him to let me come back because Clary or someone told him I was dying.

I want him to forgive me.

But every day the likelihood of that seems less and less.

Sometimes I stare at the marks his nails left next to my soulmarks. Then I start to shudder, remembering how angry he was — how irreparably he hates me. And the marks fade more every day and soon they won’t be there at all. Soon there won’t be any physical evidence of him at all. Other than his words on my arm.

It’s not like the Institute was ever particularly welcoming before, with Jace and all his Captain-America cool-guy swagger, but it’s different now. Depressing, oppressive. Stained glass and stone and vaulted ceilings and high-tech computer systems are everything the Hotel isn’t. Just looking around makes me feel like I’m going to suffocate. And I find myself missing seeing him lounged on those ugly gold couches. He could make anything look good.

You’d think that you could maybe get over being nocturnal like it was jet-lag or something, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. As long as it’s night, I’m wide awake, no matter how badly I sleep during the day.

Every night I end up staring at one string of messages, the name _Raphael_ burned into the top of the thread.

[To: Raphael, 21:50]  
_I’m sorry_

[To: Raphael, 21:58]  
_can you call me?_

[To: Raphael, 21:58]  
_please_

[To: Raphael, 00:17]  
_seriously_

[To: Raphael, 1:15]  
_we’re soulmates_

[To: Raphael, 2:30]  
_maybe what I did was stupid but we can figure this out_

[To: Raphael, 4:35]  
_ok so it was definitely stupid_

It’s been three days since I sent those text messages, three days since the little taunting _read 5:06_ appeared at the bottom of the chain. Just to add insult to injury. Knowing that he’s read every word but doesn’t care enough to respond.

_Please stop talking_.

-

It feels kind of like a play, just watching them. I don’t know when I felt this removal from them; I distinctly remember feeling like part of this world — being just as happy around the Shadowhunters as I did with the vampires, but now I’m watching Magnus, Alec, Clary, and Izzy with a sense of complete and utter detachment. Even their words seem to register half a second too late, and I don’t feel any of the urgency contained in their voices.

“I still can’t _believe_ you lost track of her,” Magnus say, the tenor of the words so familiar I’m convinced he’s said them several times before. It takes me a second to realize he’s switched to talking about Camille instead of the blind panic about Jace and Valentine, and I sit up the tiniest bit, just because it feels like this _might_ be relevant to me.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room, silent as always — God, how times have fucking changed — my hands cupping my face since I don’t seem to even have the energy to sit up straight anymore.

“You were there, too,” Clary snaps back. Her tone has been like that — short, frustrated, just completely pissed off — ever since Jace left. Maybe three days ago — three days or a hundred years ago, it’s hard to tell which when every minute feels like an eternity — I would’ve felt a red-hot flash of jealousy, but now I just feel a vague kinship in our similar pain. But at least she didn’t lose a soulmate. Maybe that’s why she can string together a coherent sentence whereas I can barely stand to _hear_ one.

I sigh. I had been expecting something exciting but I was beginning to realize this was just going to be a retread of every other lecture Magnus has given us since we Camille escaped from us, nowhere to be found. I consider briefly the option of retreating to my room, but it’s the middle of the night so I certainly won’t be able to sleep. I pull out my phone just to stare at the word _Raphael_ written at the top of my text messages, trying to memorize every loop of his name the way I did with my soulmarks.

“—she wasn’t exactly priority one after Jace left,” Izzy is saying angrily.

“I mean, have you even _tried_ tracking her?” Clary demands. “Haven’t we heard a lot about that _warlock_ tracking?”

“Clary,” Alec interjects in a warning tone.

“Of course I tried,” Magnus says. “but I can’t find her. I know the New York chapter of vampires is on high alert, but they haven’t—”

“How do you know?” I interrupt, sitting up so quickly my phone slips off my lap and clatters onto the floor, but I barely spare it a cursory glance.

All four of them look at me. I realize that’s the first thing I’ve said in hours — maybe even a day. Clary and Izzy exchange a glance while Magnus sighs. “I have my ways,” he says. Alec gives him a sidelong glance that isn’t lost on me.

“You talked to — to _him_?” I say in a strangled tone.

“He _is_ the High Warlock of Brooklyn…” Alec says, not unkindly, but I’m still frustrated.

“Did he say anything about me?”

“No,” Magnus says, but I can tell it’s a lie.

I jump to my feet, grabbing my phone as I do so. A thousand possibilities flash through my mind of things I could say — all four sets of eyes are trained on me, all various degrees of shocked or anxious. I have a captive audience, but all I can think of is overwrought statements like: _Next time you talk to Raphael, tell him I miss him_. Or something more like: _Tell Raphael to answer my fucking texts_. But I feel the tears rising in my eyes and I know I won’t be able to get Raphael’s name out. I know I’m long past that brief window of coherency I somehow managed.

“Fuck you guys,” I say, every syllable a war to get out of my throat. I don’t even know why I’m saying it or who it’s directed towards, but it’s all that comes out. But it seems to encapsulate every shaky, shuddering, awful feeling crawling all over my body. Clary looks pissed off, and she’s the only face I pay attention to before I sprint out of the room and down the hallway to my bedroom for yet another endless night and sleepless day.

I look at my phone shakily and type out a message: _I know you talked to Magnus_. But when I see it there in black and white, I don’t like how it looks. I sigh for the millionth time and tap the backspace button rapidly.

[To: Raphael, 23:58]  
_I heard you’re on high alert because of Camille. I hope everyone is safe._

[To: Raphael, 23:59]  
_I guess maybe I haven’t learned anything because I really only care about YOU being safe_

-

“Simon,” she says from behind me. I tense up for a second but continue to slide on my shoes and then shrug into a hoodie — which only reminds me that I managed to get used to wearing all his fancy jackets — before I even look at her. Her brow is furrowed with concern, probably because she’s knocked on my room once every hour since I unceremoniously swore at her yesterday.

There’s fire in her eyes, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flicker from my dirty shoes up to my hair that hasn’t been brushed ever since someone decided to unceremoniously tear out my heart.

It’s not until that moment that I realize all the rejections she’s given me over the course of our lives never felt this shitty.

She looks disappointed in me. Four days ago, I would’ve cared.

Maybe part of me blames her.

Maybe it’s nice to have the relief of blaming her when I spend every waking hour blaming myself.

“Where are you—” she starts.

“I’ll be back before dawn,” I interrupt, then wrench open the door. I vaguely hear her call my name, but I don’t even pay attention. My hands are shaking as I grab my phone, but at least the air smells clean instead of like angels. It’s the first time I’ve left the Institute since the night I met him outside, and just looking around reminds me of him. I drag another breath through my lungs.

Every look he’s ever given me, the sound of his smooth voice, every word he’s said — I wish every second of our time together could be burned into my brain the way his words are burned onto my arm.

[To: Raphael, 20:04]  
_it’s quiet here_

[To: Raphael, 20:05]  
_I wonder if it’s quiet there too_

**_Read_ ** _20:08_

I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry.

-

“What did Raphael say about me?” I ask without preamble as soon as he opens the door. It took a very long thirty seconds of insistent knocking, but there he is, looking as Magnus Bane as ever in a deep violet shirt, black pants, and about ten necklaces. The tips of his perfectly-styled hair are the exact color of his shirt.

One corner of his lip turns up, and I’m too preoccupied with my own thoughts to wonder if he’s being friendly or just smirking at me. Then he takes a step back from the door and I walk in without even waiting for a perfunctory invite. “Are you eating enough?” he asks suddenly, his eyes flickering over me.

I sigh sharply. “Yes.”

“You look ill.”

“I hear having half your soul ripped out can do that to you,” I say melodramatically.

“Still no reason to neglect one of life’s finer pleasures. Though, I guess that might not apply if what you’re eating is _blood_ —”

“I’m _eating_ , okay?” I snap. “And I _want_ to know what Raphael said about me.”

Magnus sighs and sits down, but I can’t do anything but helplessly pace back and forth in his living room. His eyes follow me carefully. “Honestly, he’s been at least as taciturn as you. I went to the Hotel to check on him after — well, after Alec informed me that your grand romance came to a screeching halt. Which was the first I’d heard of it, by the way — some friend _he_ is. He spoke with me just long enough to tell me that your former compatriots are on high alert, and then he left. Lily threatened me with no uncertain death if I stuck around and bothered him, so, no, I didn’t even have the opportunity to mention you.”

At some point during his speech, the fire went out in me, and I felt myself slipping back to being a background character in my own life. “Well,” I say softly, knowing it’s the last thing I need to ask, “did he look okay?”

“About as awful as you, just slightly more well-groomed.” There’s pity all over his face, but I’m so used to people looking at me that way lately that it barely even registers.

“Alright,” I manage, then I turn on my heel to leave.

“You can stay in my guest room,” he says quietly, “I know the Institute can feel a little oppressive to Downworlders.”

I shake my head with my back still to him and then race out of his loft and onto the street.

[To: Raphael, 21:36]  
_maybe you don’t believe me but I miss you_

[To: Raphael, 21:36]  
_a lot_

I have hours and hours until dawn, and I don’t want to spend a single extra minute under the overly cautious, overly watchful eyes of the Shadowhunters. Every step through the New York streets makes me feel the tiniest bit better. It’s easy to shut off my brain, see people as just a crowd, let all the noises around me devolve into just white noise.

I can be a mindless, soulless, faceless ghost out here — no one will know the difference, no one will care, no one will expect me to be Simon Lewis without understanding that _that_ Simon Lewis disappeared the second Raphael left.

**_Read_** _22:05_

Every second is torture.

I think I understand the hell he was talking about.

* * *

_Raphael_

“Have you slept?” Lily demands.

“In my life?” I ask, just to be difficult, staring at the list of names in front of me. There are handwritten notes scrawled all over the pages that I’ve made during what feels like the hundreds of phone calls I’ve made. I stare a little too hard at one particularly incomprehensible note that just says: _Call Paris_ , which I think would probably be quite obvious if my brain weren’t short-circuiting every five minutes or so.

_Sleep_. I scoff a little internally; I barely remember what sleep feels like.

“Since Simon left,” Lily prods.

I wince, even though she didn't say it in any sort of unkind way. I’m too tired to have my usual walls up, so just hearing his name tears open something I'd been desperately keeping closed with endless phone calls and important meetings. It's been impossible to forget him, but hearing someone else mention him is a different kind of pain.

“I haven’t slept since Camille got loose,” I finally answer.

“You're too old to be evasive,” she says flatly.

I find myself frowning, my shoulders falling, my mouth drying out. In hindsight, maybe forcing myself to stay awake wasn’t the _best_ idea, because I’m feeling my willpower rapidly crumble. My breathing feels unusually difficult.

“What are you going to do if she shows up and you pass out because you haven't slept in three days?”

“That won’t happen,” I insist without any bite to it.

“Raphael.”

I take a deep breath and then admit, “He’s my soulmate.” The words sound small, just hanging there in the air. I watch with a sense of detachment as her mouth pops open and her eyes widen. I wonder how silly all this looks if you’re on the outside looking in. Maybe not _silly_ , but certainly like some kind of soap opera.

I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head, and finally she says in a horrified tone, “And that’s why you told us to kill him.”

“I — I never wanted a soulmate.”

“Do you _love_ him?”

There are a million answers for that question and my sleep deprived brain filters through several of them in such rapid succession that I feel a little nauseated — _yes, no, I hate him, of course I fell in love with him, but that was then_ — and then I just give a heavy sigh. The air feels toxic now, but it’ll feel worse in my bedroom where everything reminds me of him. I’ve had that room for decades but he managed to taint it almost immediately.

“I’ll sleep,” I finally say, “but you have to promise to wake me up if anyone comes.”

She nods slowly and then asks carefully, “And if _he_ comes?”

“Don't kill him.”

“But he betrayed you, Raphael.”

I laugh hollowly. “You think I don’t know that?”

-

“So you finally forced your way in,” I say, not meaning for that childish spitefulness to creep into my tone.

The only answer I get is the stubborn way she crosses her arms over her chest as her eyes narrow into slits. How tall is she? Five-four? About one hundred and five pounds? Untrained, untested, not even a little bit threatening — even less so because of the overly confident way she’s standing. One thing I haven’t missed with _him_ gone is seeing fewer Shadowhunters around.

“Who _did_ let you in here?” I ask, filtering through the possibly list, with Lily right on top.

“Look, Raphael—”

“This isn’t an open forum to discuss Simon Lewis,” I interrupt in a flat tone, inwardly cursing whoever felt the need to allow the girl to see me. I think it’s the first time I’ve said his name in the four days since I last saw him, and I think I unconsciously allowed a bitter edge to creep around his name. “Honestly, you kidnapped one of my prisoners, so technically it wouldn’t be against the Accords for me to hold _you_ prisoner right now, you know—”

“Simon told me everything,” she says, each syllable intending to be a stab-wound that manages to miss every mark.

“I’m sure he did,” I say, scoffing. I’m far more composed after the several hours of sleep I got, mentally prepared to spar with Clary — though it’s frustrating to waste my waking hours on _her_. I sit down on one of the gold couches to make myself more comfortable — or, at least, so she _thinks_ I’m more comfortable. I know enough about Clary to know that she would never leave anything without a thorough fight.

“Why?” she asks abruptly, her voice sounding genuinely pained. “Why can’t _something_ work out?” There’s something so openly, genuinely desperate about her tone that I feel my carefully crafted smile falter. My arm slides off the back of the couch — I don’t even realize I’m slipping until it falls.

“You can’t have this one,” I say quietly, extending an olive branch if she would only back down.

But she frowns and insists, “He loves you.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she would never wave any kind of white flag, but it’s worse than that. She lands that blow; I feel the sting for once. “There’s no way he’s said those words to you.”

That seems to throw her off. “How do you know?”

I can practically feel the burn of my phone in my pocket. I’ve seen every one of his messages — and ignored every one. But I still see them. And not even he — a man so desperate for a soulmate that he acts like it’s a base-level need — has thrown around the word _love_ to try to get me to cave. “I just do,” I say simply.

“And you’ve known he’s your soulmate the whole time.”

“Time really isn’t quite as grand of a concept to an immortal—”

“Why did you make me do it?” she acts in a distinctly different tone — childish, almost whiney.

“Kidnap Camille? Break into my home on dozens of occasions—?”

“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head so her red hair flits from side to side. Now I’m the one narrowing my eyes unconsciously, trying to see there what Simon was in love with for so many years. “No — why did you make me do that? You _knew_ he was your soulmate — you knew what his fate was. You _knew_ you’re destined to be together forever but you — you brought him to me — you made me choose — even though he belongs to _you_.”

Her orange hair is quite lovely, her porcelain skin is probably also lovely to someone who’s partial to that particular skin tone. She’s leaning towards me, all earnestness and anger — all honest emotions, easy to read and easy to dismiss. A simplicity of mind that might be comforting if I weren’t very aware of that the depths of her soul aren’t nearly as pure as she appears.

I wonder if those were the things Simon saw, or if they were more simple. _Pretty, smart, strong, just a total badass — the whole package — you’d understand, Raphael, if you were even a bit normal somewhere under all that cool-guy shit_. I wonder if he’d say that. I wonder when I started imagining his words.

“It was cruel,” she’s saying, and my eyes snap back to hers. I can’t tell if I’m seeing tears in her eyes.

“How old are you, Clary?” I ask slowly.

She frowns, taking a step back. Any tears I’d seen are gone instantly — maybe they were never even there. Her mouth is set in a hard line, as though she’s ready for a battle she’s fought and won a million times before. “Eighteen.”

I nod. “An eighteen-year-old can’t possibly understand anything about fate.”

“He _is_ your—”

“Yes, he is. But that doesn’t mean millennia of happiness. Look at Magnus Bane — he’s been searching the world for centuries for his soulmate and now that he’s finally found him, he’s a mortal. Soon he’ll die, and then what will Magnus have? Then he’ll be alone. You misunderstand that the existence of fate guarantees its kindness. If you want me to apologize for asking you to make a choice—”

“You _forced_ me to — it’s like you don’t even care about Simon—” I shrug, and she bites back her words. “He misses you, he thinks about you all the time, he feels awful about everything—”

“This has been an enlightening conversation, Clary, but—”

“You know what?” she interrupts for what feels like the thousandth time. “You’re an idiot, too. I know you’re only acting like this because you don’t want to have a soulmate, but if you didn’t know he was your soulmate and you’d just fallen for him like normal like I _know_ you have, I think you’d be chasing after him right now, wouldn't you? Or, at least, you’d be willing to let him chase after you. I don’t care if I’m only eighteen, I know that much, Raphael.”

I frown at her and jump off my seat, lurching towards her. I’m tired of just evading her attacks; I’m finally ready to match her fight. She unconsciously takes a half-step away from me, and I’m more than a little irrationally proud of the panic in her eyes.

“Now it’s _my turn_ ,” I say. “Let me guess. You met Jace Wayland and thought that you found your soulmate, but then you found out that he’s your brother, but even now you can’t help but wonder: Is he your soulmate, or can he really only see your soulmarks because you’re blood relatives? You wonder if coincidences can be that big. But you want to be with him and you want to _fuck_ him and you hate that he’s convinced you’re siblings. And now here we are. Here _you_ are. Bitter and angry because you still aren’t sure — because you doubt your own memory from the first time you met. Maybe it’s the first time you’ve ever really doubted yourself. And now he’s gone. And you couldn’t save him _then_ and you can’t save him _now_ and you can’t save yourself and you can’t save the world and _you can’t save Simon Lewis no matter how much better it’ll make you feel about your life_. So go. This is one time you won’t bring destruction on my vampires.”

She has real tears in her eyes, real panic in her eyes, real pain all over her face. Not only did her expression collapse, but her cold, hard stance faded and now she’s just standing there as though the smallest gust of wind could finish breaking her. Her mouth opens and then closes again.

I thought it would feel a bit better to see her eviscerated, but I feel a tiny twinge of guilt as she turns and races out the room.

My phone buzzes, and I reluctantly look at it; he’s certainly still a magnet I can’t free myself from.

[From: Simon Lewis, 23:49]  
_everything I type sounds fucking stupid but I hope maybe you still care that I’m still around_

[From: Simon Lewis, 23:50]  
_maybe I’ll stop bothering you for a while_

I pocket my phone and take a deep breath, wondering how a fairly innocuous text message from him can fuck me up far more than a million battles with Clary Fairchild.

Maybe I should accept that I’ll never be free of him.

My eyes involuntarily flicker down to his words on my arm and so I reach for my jacket to cover them up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving next week, so it's possible that chapter 10 will be slightly delayed. I have about half of it written already, so hopefully it won't be!
> 
> A little teaser: In chapter 10, Simon and Raphael will be in the same room again. What will they be doing? Who knows! ;)


	10. Agitation

_Simon_

I left the Institute more than twenty-four hours ago.

I could pretend that I embarked on some kind of grand, life-changing Jack Kerouac-style adventure, but really I just left just because staying seemed unbearable. I left just to leave; I stayed away because coming back didn’t sound any more welcoming. I meandered aimlessly around the city, feeling the faintest taste of relief at being part of a crowd. It was mindless, it was preferable, and it helped me feel numb instead of hurt.

I used to wander around Brooklyn with that incomparable sense of _home_ , of belonging. I delighted in every new shortcut found, every new shop or building I discovered, every new apartment building I saw that made me think _someday_ with longing. It felt like my real-life version of the maps at the beginning of fantasy novels — my very own Middle Earth, and I prided myself in the fact that I knew it better than _anyone_. But now the city is nothing but familiar — no more new stones to uncover, and no more joy to be found in even trying to discover anything new.

My phone buzzed about every hour with a new text that I always checked — I scolded myself every time, knowing it wouldn’t be him — but it was only Clary so I never replied. Sometimes I wondered vaguely when I started thinking of her in terms of _only Clary_ as though she hadn’t been the most important thing in my life a week ago. It was a little unsettling if I thought about it too hard, but I wasn’t hard to dwell on nothing but him.

My battery had only been around thirty percent when I left the Institute, so my phone died long before sunrise. A few times I idly wondered if he’d texted me, but the rational part of my brain told me that he didn’t.

Once it hit five am, I considered again going back to the Institute, but instead I snuck into a movie theater. I hung out until a kiddie movie opened the theater up at 10:30, bought one ticket, and jumped between theaters when each movie ended. I managed to get five movies in. A year ago, this day would’ve been heaven.

But now? I cried during movies that made other people laugh; I laughed during movies that made other people cry. I’m fucked up and can’t even process stories anymore. Even though that was basically my main thing before.

At eight pm, sitting near people started getting more uncomfortable, so I left. I wandered the streets again because at least the open air tempered the smell of blood and made it easier to bear. I broke into a butcher shop just after midnight and downed some animal blood. It was my first time trying it, and there was a sour, rotten taste to it, but at least the burning subsided a little. I laughed hollowly that I’d become nothing more than a _Twilight_ vampire.

A few times it crossed my mind that Clary was probably worried, but that only made me wonder if she would tell Raphael that I disappeared. He wouldn’t care. I didn’t know when I became such an asshole that I didn’t even care about worrying my best friend — when she was already worried enough about Jace — but it didn’t bother me nearly as much as it should’ve.

I made my way near the Hotel Dumort and got chased off by Lily; it wasn’t a battle I was ready to fight, especially with someone who wasn’t _him_ , so I kept walking.

Now, after those pointless, meandering hours, I find myself at Magnus’s loft. It’s around six am, just before sunrise. There was something about the memory of him offering to let me sleep there that must’ve made my footsteps unconsciously go that way. I stare at the door for a second before giving in and knocking, which I do with about as much ambivalence as I had during my long-forgotten accounting classes.

Magnus opens the door — hair flat, wearing just a black t-shirt and sweatpants, looking so _normal_ I can’t help but be a little disconcerted — and his eyes go from annoyed to shocked. “Oh,” he says, recovering quickly. “We were taking bets for whether or not you were dead.” He turns away from the door and pulls out his phone; I have a pretty strong guess that he’s texting Clary, but I don’t care enough to ask.

“Yeah?” I ask, trying to keep my tone somewhere in the realm of conversational. “Which side were you on?” I didn’t walk here with a plan, but now that I’m here, things fall into place, and I know I need something from the veritable _fount_ of information in front of me. I follow him into the living room, where he collapses onto the sofa and unceremoniously drops his phone next to him, as though just the act of texting was enough to exhaust him. He stretches out and I take the chair across from him, not breaking eye contact.

“Alive,” he finally answers, waving a hand dismissively. “Prostrating yourself at Raphael’s feet. Lots of tears.”

I flinch a little at how legitimate of a guess that is; I certainly imagined that version of reality several times over the course of my (boring) New York misadventures earlier. “He won’t even let me near him,” I admit quietly.

“You tried?” He sounds a little surprised.

“I wasn’t allowed within a half-mile. Lily chased me off… I think she knows.” I watch carefully as Magnus shrugs, avoiding my eyes either intentionally or otherwise as he sinks further into the sofa. Suddenly I bitterly hope I woke him up from a deep sleep. “Would he tell them?” I ask, a little too sharply.

“I should think you’d have better insight into the inner workings of the clan.” He picks up his phone idly and suddenly I realize that he’s forcing himself to be casual; this is his poker face and I don’t even know why he’s bluffing.

I frown. “He’s never told _me_ much.”

One corner of Magnus’s mouth turns up, and I find myself glaring at him unconsciously. “Apparently he withheld some essential information from you.”

“Apparently,” I snap.

“Why didn’t you go back to the Institute?”

I shrug.

“Why did you come _here_?” He gestures around the room. “Of course, I’d understand why, after being at that horrible Institute—”

“I’m pansexual,” I interrupt without any sort of preamble. I was alone in the Institute for four days with nothing to do but Google everything between gay and straight, and saying it aloud feels even more right than reading in-depth definitions. It doesn’t make sense, but I just want to say it out loud one time, to this person who also isn’t straight, and to someone who might eventually tell Raphael. If things don’t go well.

He nods as he sits up and leans forward. “Do you need to… talk about it?”

I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to discuss something that I’ve already figured out.

“Shall we do a celebratory shot?” he asks with a sudden grin.

I roll my eyes. “You just woke up.”

“You make heartbreak look depressing, my dear,” he sighs. When I just glare at him, he continues, “Then at least tell me — why did you run away?”

I take a deep breath, trying to switch gears as easily as he did. “I don’t think you can run away from a place that isn’t your home. Technically.”

“Clary was worried.” He grimaces a little; I wonder if she was particularly scary the way she sometimes gets.

“And Raphael didn’t even know I was gone.” My voice is so whiny and childish that I wince, but I look down at my folded hands. I don’t need to see his face to confirm what I already know: Raphael doesn’t care if I’m alive or dead.

“You could’ve been kidnapped by Camille. It’s certainly happened before.” He sounds a little bitter when he says her name, but it barely even registers.

Then I glance up. “Where do you guys think she is? I mean, you must be looking for her. Everyone at the Institute is more concerned about the whole Jace and Valentine thing.”

He sighs and tips his head back. “Last we heard, she’s been hanging out with some nomadic vamps on the lower east side. They never liked Raphael much, I guess — he _is_ pretty young for a vampire.”

I nod slowly; it’s not much, but it’s a start. “Have you talked to him again?”

“No,” Magnus says, sounding at least a little apologetic.

“If you do, tell him…” I trail off, once again unable to think of any sort of grand statement that could be communicated through someone else. “You know what, no. Just fucking — just fucking make sure he’s okay, I guess. I don’t know why he wouldn’t be. I guess.” I shake my head, feeling stupid, and now there’s that pity again all over Magnus’s face.

But I got what I came here for, so I turn to leave.

“Sleep in the guest room,” he says.

I think about it for a minute — how there’s sunrise outside any second, how it might feel to burn in the daylight, how I’ll be plummeted with a thousand questions the second I walk back into the Institute — and so I nod slowly.

* * *

  _Raphael_

“I have work to do,” I tell Magnus flatly the second I see him. He comes in with the scent of cologne, hair tips dyed blue — different from when I saw him two days ago — and a playful smirk on his lips. He’s been waiting decades for this, probably — the moment when Raphael Santiago fell down to normal. Fell in love with a stupid boy and is nursing his wounds pathetically like they’re battle-scars.

“And I have a very sad fledgling at my loft,” he says in such a smooth voice that it takes me a second to understand. I blink and look at him. His smirk has practically turned into a full-out grin, and he’s practically bouncing on his heels.

To be fair, at this point I’m practically _inventing_ work to find Camille — she seems to be nowhere, and apparently an entire hotel full of vampires can’t find so much as one lead. So while talk of Simon isn’t exactly a welcome distraction, it’s admittedly not as inconvenient as it would’ve been two days ago. Somehow that logic doesn’t make me any less annoyed at Magnus’s presence.

“He’s at your place?” I ask, willing my voice to sound as normal as possible.

“I have no photographic evidence — yet — but I assure you he is.”

I pretend to look for something on my desk and then I finally respond, “I’m surprised he left the Institute. You’d think he’d be glued to Clary’s side.” _Waiting to fuck her_ , is what I bite back from saying.

“He hasn’t been to the Institute in about thirty-six hours.” The smirk on Magnus’s face only gets impossibly more pronounced, and he practically bounces to the couch. He sits across from me, leaning forward. He sure knows how to drop a bomb; I feel more than a little shell-shocked.

“A day and a half?” I hiss, jumping up from my desk. “Where the fuck was he?”

“No idea. Won’t say. He certainly wasn’t at my loft until he woke me up at an ungodly hour this morning.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.” I start to pace back and forth, even as his eyes carefully follow my movements.

“He thinks you wouldn’t care if he did.” His eyebrows jut upwards: a challenge.

I roll my eyes. “Of course he does. With him, everything is so black and white.”

“He might not be the only one,” he says loftily, and the only response I give him in a tired glare. His smirk fades slowly and is replaced by the quiet drumming of his fingers against the arm of the couch. He looks contemplative for a moment before saying, “You could’ve told me, you know.”

I stop moving then, grabbing the back of the chair in front of me. “About?”

“About him. About you and him. About everything.”

I sigh. “Nothing happened.”

He just laughs. “He’s _crazy_ about you, Raphael.” And the words sting. “That didn’t happen in the second you told him you told him you’re soulmates.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“I know him pretty well, to be honest.”

“No, Magnus, you _don’t_ ,” I snap, just imagining when Simon was here. I can remember exactly how close we were; how well I knew him — even the suggestion that Magnus could know him even a fraction the way I do is annoying, and I certainly hate how possessive I still am of him. “He loves soulmates — the whole concept. That’s the only fucking thing he cares about. He was chasing after her — coming to me squealing when she asked him to the wedding you crashed — _everything_. He didn’t care enough about me to not _betray_ me.”

“ _Pansexual_ , he said. Right there in my loft.” He gestures wildly, as though this is the ultimate reason for me to forgive Simon.

“That doesn’t change anything—”

“He’s changing for you,” he interrupts, sounding a little frustrated. It’s annoying but a welcome change from that small, holier-than-thou smirk. “And you won’t even talk to him? Sure, what he did with Camille was bad, but he didn’t know what he did would be _so_ horrible. Even I didn’t think anything of the Writ of Transmutation when they came to me. We can’t all understand the complex workings of vampire politics, Raphael. Especially since he’s been a vamp for all of, what, two weeks? You have decades on him, maybe he deserves a little slack. You can’t hold that crush on Clary over his head for his whole immortal life, can you?”

I grimace. “This isn’t about Clary—”

“Bullshit,” he snaps, punctuating the word with a swipe of his hand.

“Magnus—”

“The least you can do is talk to the poor boy.”

I’m breathing a little heavily, just from this argument. “Since when do you care about Simon?” I ask quietly.

He sighs sharply and gives me that look that always makes me feel like a child, not just because he’s lived several of my lifetimes, but because there will always be some things that Magnus Bane will always understand before I do. I find myself frowning even before he opens his mouth. “I care about _you_ , you idiot,” he says lightly.

My glare slowly fades and I sit down next to him. He has the decency to look empathetic when I know he’s probably gleeful that he won the battle. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and stare at the blank screen; I don’t realize until that second that I’d gotten used to seeing his messages.

“His phone is dead,” Magnus says.

I pause and unlock my phone. “And you’ll give him a charger?” I glance at him just long enough to see him nod.

[To: Simon Lewis, 7:06]  
_Come over after dusk. Use the back stairs._

“Feel any better?” he asks.

“No.”

-

When Simon appears, I feel the wind get knocked out of me. He opens my bedroom door like he never left, and I’m halfway across the room before I get a good look at him. At first, we just stare at each other. For once he looks exactly as I feel — like he hasn’t slept in days. I feel a slash of pain right through the middle of me; it took a few seconds for it to sink in that he’s _here_ , right in front of me.

“Raphael,” he breathes out. He takes a step closer, looking almost physically unsteady.

I just stare at him. It’s silly and stupid, but I want to memorize his face like that — brown eyes wide, skin pale, dark hair wild and matted. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, and I foolishly want to scold him that he’s a danger to himself and others in that state. But that isn’t my place anymore.

He’s wearing a stupid Star Trek t-shirt and he’s slouched over with hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Every stuttering breath and every twitch is a mark of how uncomfortable he is. And I don’t particularly want to help him be more comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, the words pouring out of him so rapidly I have to concentrate hard to understand. “I’m really sorry — I didn’t mean for things to get so bad and honestly I’m still not sorry I helped Jocelyn, but maybe I should’ve thought more about you and everyone here. And, I really do want you to know that, like — well, uh, it’s stupid to say now but I really did _like_ you then. I really did _want_ you then. Even before you told me. It was just hard to admit it to myself — I thought I was straight — and it was just _easier_ to like Clary.”

I stare at him silently for a second. “This was a bad idea,” I finally manage to get out, even though it feels like someone is strangling me. I walk over to him and then past him, going for the door. His eyes follow my movements, growing wider and wider in horror with every step I take. But I don’t _need_ an apology, I don’t _want_ one. His words just make it _worse_ , and even hearing him just tears at me. I shouldn’t have listened to Magnus; he might have centuries on me but he doesn’t know everything.

“No, Raphael — I mean, you — _you_ invited _me_ over.”

I glare. “I changed my mind.”

“But I have questions — and so many things to say.”

“I don’t care.”

He takes a step forward. “Raphael—”

“Just go,” I interrupt.

“Do you _love_ me?” he asks abruptly, roughly — I didn’t want him to ask any questions, let alone _that_ one. But his voice is all pleading and insecurities. It’s only been days, but he’s young — from that look in his eyes, I think that maybe it’s felt like an eternity for him. At first he just stares at me and I stare back, forcing my face to remain expressionless, but then he starts pacing a little bit. His eyes never leave mine, and I lean against the door, trying to convey an air of nonchalance even though I just wish that he would leave. Why am I always the one who has to pretend to be unaffected when he’s allowed to wear his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor?

“Simon…” I start, but trail off immediately. It’s nothing more than a sigh. The realization sets in that I can’t end the conversation as quickly as I wanted to; I guess it’s my penance for listening to Magnus’s advice.

He looks wounded, but I’m not sure why. “It’s not fair. You had time to know me — to know _this_ — to fall in love — maybe—”

“It isn’t my fault you’re in love with the Fairchild girl.” I sound petulant, even to myself.

“I’m not, I swear—”

“Just go, Simon,” I say, shoving myself away from the door. He’s moving frenetically and I’m tired of standing still.

“Can’t you just answer my question?”

He’s meeting my eyes defiantly, and I can’t help but think of the last time we were in this room together. He fell asleep with a pillow propped against my leg; it had been all I could do to not run my fingers through his hair. I had been warm, happy, secure that the time was coming. _Please stop talking_ — the words had hovered on the tip of my tongue. But I didn’t say it. I let him sleep.

I’ve mistake after mistake, but I still hate him for standing here in front of me. He didn’t even try to give me much more than a perfunctory apology; instead, he’s asking something from me — he just wants to take more, fulfill his fantasies. That’s the only reason he’s here. Because he cares about _fate_. I know what I project — I know I try to always keep my composure — but I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. I feel myself breaking, and I don’t even try to curb it.

“I _loved_ you,” I say viciously, every ounce of vitriol that I can jam into the past tense.

His face falls. “Raphael—”

“Didn’t I fucking tell you to leave?” I snap, turning away.

Before I realize what’s happening, he’s right in front of me, grabbing the lapels of my jacket. “Please, just _talk_ to me,” he says, and then looks down at his hands. He’s realized a second too late what he’s done, and I feel his tight grip loosen. Then he meets my eyes again. His face is shocked — mine probably is too — but slowly his hands inch their way to the back of my neck. His touch is soft and hesitant, an exploration that might endear me if I weren’t so pissed off. But still I stand perfectly still, feeling as his fingers thread through the back of my hair.

It’s been years since I’ve felt anyone’s hands on me like that, and I’m shocked that it doesn’t feel bad. I can’t take my eyes off him, watching as his eyes slowly become hazy. He looks from my eyes down to my lips a few times in rapid succession. I look down at his mouth, pink lips open slightly at first and then he bites his bottom lip. “Raphael—” he sighs. It’s so _normal_ of him — one second fighting viciously, the next second wanting to kiss me. I guess he really is only eighteen.

But I’m not much better. I’m hyper-aware of him, of the feeling of him all over me: hands on the back of my head, breath warm against my cool skin, and from the expression on his face, he’s reading something in my own face that I can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve lost control, but I have no where to move to get it back. I always knew I would drown in him.

“Can I?” he asks softly.

I know what he’s asking — I know what he wants.

I didn’t know I had any further to fall, but I feel another part of me snap.

Because then I realize that I want it too.

And then I’m kissing him.

I’m the one who moved first, but as soon as our lips connect, he’s the one pressing forward. I can’t feel anything but him — one of his hands gripping my hair, the other on my neck. He’s pressed against me, and suddenly my back slams against the wall. I don’t mind — it’s a relief to feel something that’s not him. His lips are soft at first, but then wild and frantic. His tongue is against mine, demanding _more_ ; I match him, but I put my hands on his hips to push him back a little.

My mind is getting foggy from kissing him, from the shock of it feeling good, from wanting a little more, but it’s still too much — _he’s_ too much.

I don’t mind because it’s Simon, I feel myself wanting it because it’s _Simon_ , but I’m not used to wanting anything, and it sets me on edge. I’m uncomfortable and torn and mostly just _overwhelmed_ — I feel like a live wire, and some tiny rational part in the back of my head tells me I’m still _pissed off at him_. I’d almost forgotten.

My jacket hits the floor and I don’t even remember feeling his hands pulling off my clothes. Then I feel him tugging on the collar of my t-shirt. His lips leave mine for the first time and then he’s kissing my neck, his fangs dragging on my skin without breaking it. I shudder over how good it feels. I know he’s still hesitating, asking for permission. When I let go of his hips, he falls forward against me, and I can feel his erection through his clothes.

“Stop,” I say suddenly, a hand going to his chest to shove him back, but he’s already pulling away. He meets my eyes again, nothing but lust all over his face. His hair is mussed — had I done that? — and his lips look a little red. It vaguely occurs to me that all those passive-aggressive comments about him being straight weren’t really warranted.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless despite not needing to breathe. I know the feeling. He takes a step back and I lean back against the wall, tipping my head so I’m staring at the ceiling. Anything but him.

“You need to leave.” I say it without much emotion.

“Because of that? Raphael, I thought you—”

“No,” I interrupt, looking back at him again, “because you betrayed us.” There’s no accusation, just a simple statement of fact. He looks like I’ve stabbed him, but I don’t have more time to coddle his impulses and insecurities; I’m still fighting to rectify the very real consequences of his mistakes. I walk to the door and open it.

“There’s nothing I can do?” he asks softly, following me.

I shake my head and shrug. I expect some grandiose statement from him — some wild declaration — but then his gaze falls and his mouth drops open. I look where he is, and then I understand. He’s seeing my soulmarks for the first time — _his_ words branded on _my_ skin. I remember the first time I saw his, so I don’t blame him for the look of wonder in his eyes. But I still feel sick to my stomach, watching how happy he is about it. This is his literal dream come true, but if I could’ve had a fantasy about soulmates, it certainly would’ve been about meeting Simon on the street and falling in love without feeling like I’m being strangled by a red string of fate every day.

He reaches forward slowly and his fingers ghost over the words. “‘Oh my God,’” he reads, such wonder in his voice that I don't think he even realizes that he finally said the word God, “‘please don’t hurt me — this is just like in _Taken_ , except my dad is dead and can’t save me.’” He snorts, but still stares as though he’s physically incapable of looking away. “Is that really the first thing I said to you?”

My throat feels too dry to talk, but I finally manage, “Yes.”

“What did you feel when I said it?”

“Not much,” I reply.

But I feel it _now_ — tearing at me, crushing me — this _love_ for him.

And I hate it.

And I hate him.

He grips my arm softly, and then he leans down to place a soft kiss on the words.

It feels more intimate than anything that happened in the last few minutes, and I feel myself jerking my arm away.

His lips were soft and gentle against my skin — so different than they had felt against my own. I remember the feeling and almost break again.

“I asked you that night,” he says, voice pleading. “I asked you what were the first words you said to me.”

It would feel so good to give into him.

“Simon—”

“But that’s not enough?” he interrupts.

“No,” I sigh.

He nods slowly and finally says, “You know, I wish you’d give me time to fall in love with you.”

I laugh bitterly and say condescendingly, “Because we’re _soulmates_?”

“No. Because I’m already halfway there.” The way he says it like it’s a simple statement of fact and not a wild declaration crushes me a little more.

“Go,” I say softly, barely getting the word out.

“That’s really what you want?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s nothing else I can say?”

“No.” Half-laugh, half bitter truth. It comes out with more of a bite than I anticipated, and we both wobble a bit from the blow. Maybe we’d both unconsciously been thinking of this in terms of new conditions — more time, new circumstances — but setting it out there in black and white took both of us aback.

When he meets my eyes, he looks resolved. I wonder if he’s going to make another move to stay — and I’m not sure how many of his attacks I can deflect — but instead he just nods and says, “Goodbye, Raphael.” Just before he makes it out the door, he gives me one last look back. His face looks resolute, determined, a little wistful. It’s something I can’t read.

Then he slips out the door.

For some reason, I feel more uneasy than ever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The move went well (still have lots of stuff to unpack/organize, but that's to be expected), thanks to everyone who wished me luck!
> 
> Thanks as always for all the comments and kudos! Please [check out my podcast](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2) with my best friend/beta Hannah if you want more Shadowhunters stuff during the hiatus (plus my [tweets](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ)). <3


	11. Downfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! It shouldn't happen again. I posted a fluffy Saphael a couple weeks back if anyone missed it (it might help alleviate the angst).

_Simon_

High school feels like a hundred years ago, even though it’s only been about half a year. It was a torturous process, only made better because of Clary. Through it all, I made fun of those jock types who loved high school so much — the ones who peaked, then had to suffer through harsh reality in college and after. It made being a nerd feel a lot easier. It gave me a nice sense of superiority when it seemed like nothing else would. But what did I turn out to be? Just another kid who peaked at eighteen, happy to just _kiss_ his soulmate one time before tossing his life away.

 _That’s_ what I think about as I walk to my doom. All those songs I wrote, and that’s all I can think about. Nothing very poetic or profound, really. Maybe I never really was much for writing lyrics like I thought.

It took me a good hour to find Bernice’s scent — I never did get through much of Raphael’s training, that much is painfully obvious — and then another fifteen minutes to figure out how to get onto the rooftop she’s on. She knows I’m there before I’m entirely certain I’m in the right place, because before I see her, her vague voice floats over to me: “Haven’t seen you around here in awhile.” I spin around to look at her, and she’s casually sitting on the edge of the rooftop with her legs swinging off the edge. She looks more like a child in a playground than a vampire.

I teeter on the edge of a knife for a second before I decide to take the risk. “Yeah, well, I guess I’ve been off Raphael’s payroll,” I say as casually as I can, even though it’s hard just to force his name out. Especially when I can still perfectly remember the way his lips felt against mine, how soft his hair had felt under my fingers, how different his body felt on mine than the few women I’d kissed before, and how vulnerable and beautiful he looked when he pulled away.

Nothing has ever felt like that before, and I’m beginning to accept that it was probably the only time for me.

I don’t know if pretending to be against Raphael will help or hurt me, but I chance it. It’s more likely that Camille will see me this way. I think. But I wait, as still as possible, trying not to exude anxiety even though I know it’s got to be a lost cause.

Then Bernice turns towards me. Her rust-red hair looks like a giant knot at the top of her head, and her eyes are narrowed just a little bit. “Really?” she asks. “I heard that, but it’s hard to believe. Weren’t you his puppy or something?”

“I guess he decided I wasn’t housetrained,” I try to joke.

Bernice doesn’t look too concerned either way, and she turns back around. Suddenly it occurs to me that she must be looking for her next meal and I feel sick to my stomach. I try not to think too hard about those bags of blood I consume every day — try not to wonder if any humans are dying in the process. It’s harder to feel normal about it all when I’m not around Raphael, who made it so easy to feel right.

“So, what?” she asks. “Why did you come? Ready to join the nomads or something? I’m not sure if Raphael’s pampered little hotel mansion upbringing could really prepare you for all this.” She gestures vaguely at the skyline.

I suddenly wonder what it would feel like to go back to the Institute with my tail between my legs and cry to Clary again like I did all those days ago — it’s been, what, five, six days? It’s easy to lose the concept of time when you feel like this. But I could curl up under a pile of blankets, my head buried between all kinds of fabric, and I could just let out all my frustrations and cry. And I would feel the comfort of her fingers threading through my hair, the soft words she’d force out for awhile until maybe hour two and then her words would be shorter — _it’s not that bad_ and _it’ll be fine_ — because she’s thinking of Jace and I really should be a good friend and return the favor but who the fuck is Jace compared to Raphael.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and straighten my spine, trying to remember why I came here. I take a deep breath before saying, “I want to join Camille. Do you know where she is?”

Her clear, ice-blue eyes meet mine again. Her red eyebrows raise the smallest fraction. “Why?”

I shrug with an attempt at feigned casualness. “She’s my sire. And I, uh — well, I really want to get back at Raphael.” Suddenly it strikes me that maybe I shouldn’t pretend to be so calm; maybe a normal person under these circumstances would be _angry_ , but it’s too late now.

A small smile plays on her face before she turns back around. “Which of the two did you sleep with?”

My stomach churns. “Both,” I lie.

And Bernice laughs; it’s a high-pitched giggle that sounds like pure childish delight. She’s still facing away from me, but she tosses her head back as she laughs. It’s so incongruous with the rest of her that the sound feels like nails on a chalkboard.

Once she recovers, she asks lightly, “Who was better?” I frown and don’t say anything. After a minute, she gets the hint and continues, “I didn’t think Raphael was interested in _anyone_ , especially not anyone as plain as you,” she says, sounding preoccupied, but I still can’t see her face.

I choke back my anger — not at being called plain, which I know is correct, but it’s a slap in the face for someone _else_ to point out how obvious it is that Raphael could never really be into me. “Well, he isn’t anymore,” I say quietly, my voice breaking because of how _true_ it is. Maybe the first real, honest truth I’ve given her.

“And so you want revenge?”

“Yeah.” I try to sound as convincing as possible.

She giggles again. “Alright,” she says, turning back to me. I see a cell phone in her hand and a wicked grin on her face. “I have a meeting place if you want it, fledgling.”

I freeze at the nickname, completely caught off guard. Her rough voice is nothing like his smooth, perfect one; the condescension threading all throughout the word makes me feel the exact opposite of when he said it — like it was a term of endearment, a confession that I was deaf to.

And now I’ll never hear it again.

* * *

_Raphael_

Bernice and I stare at each other; I’m sitting casually in a chair — where I placed myself when Lily told me I had a visitor — and she’s standing with her nails digging into the back of the couch. Normally when I see her indoors, she’s far more fidgety, as though she hates the whole concept of having four solid walls and a roof surrounding her. But now the only thing she’s doing is gripping my furniture a little too hard; her small smile looks confident rather than forced, and there’s certainly a twinkle in her eyes that makes me uneasy despite myself.

“What?” I finally snap, a little relieved that she isn’t someone I have to play the diplomat towards.

“I had an interesting visitor today.”

“I didn’t,” I mutter under my breath.

She narrows her eyes at me and her claws finally sink all the way into my upholstery. “Simon Lewis,” she snarls.

I don’t even have the ability to try for a poker face before my eyes widen and I lurch forward in my seat, only barely catching herself before I bolt all the way to my feet. That makes her grin; she’s certainly back to having the upper hand. But I can’t even bring myself to care, because now I’m watching her every move with an intensity that doesn’t seem to faze her.

“Came around asking about Camille.” Bernice pauses and smiles as that bomb drops over me. “I texted her and got a place for them to meet. Should be happening in, oh — well, about ten minutes.”

I’m sure I’m looking at her like I’m recovering from a gut-punch, but I try to compose my face and force some severity into my tone as I ask, “Why the fuck are you here?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Why do you think?”

“Just get out,” I snap.

I get up from my seat and force out a sigh that’s supposed to convey how tiresome this conversation is, even though it’s far too late in this game to bluff. I’m not used to being blindsided like this; I’m used to being at least ten steps ahead of everyone, especially since I ousted Camille. As I turn away from Bernice, I try to formulate exactly what my best plan is for the second she leaves.

I slide my phone out of my pocket at the exact angle so that Bernice can't see and start to rapidly tap out texts.

[To: Simon Lewis, 01:05]  
_Where are you?_

[To: Simon Lewis, 01:05]  
_Don't do anything stupid_

[To: Simon Lewis, 01:05]  
_Simon_

The read receipt doesn't change, and no three dots indicating that he might be typing. My stomach sinks for a full thirty seconds as nothing changes.

[To: Simon Lewis, 01:06]  
_Please_

Then her voice floats over, “Look, Raphael, I know that you’re planning to send me out of here and have one — or several — of your little vampires trail me so that I can lead you to Camille, but that won’t work. I already _sent_ him there and I have no reason to go back there for a couple days. And who knows what’ll happen by then.”

I don’t say anything, stunned into silence.

“And — before you can come up with another great plan — you can’t run off to Magnus Bane or any of your little Shadowhunter friends for help, because Camille is surrounded by water. See, that sure narrows it down for you, doesn’t it?”

[To: Magnus, 1:09]  
_Where is Simon? Does he have his phone?_

[From: Magnus, 1:09]  
_He left hours ago_

[From: Magnus, 1:10]  
_His phone is still in the guest room_

[From: Magnus, 1:10  
_What's wrong? What happened?_

I sigh raggedly.

[To: Clary Fairchild, 1:11]  
_Tell me immediately if you hear from Simon. It's important._

“Raphael?” Bernice snaps. “Unless you’ve put a microchip in your new fledgling, you’ve got _nothing_.”

I turn back around, frowning. “So, what?” I snarl. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

“I guess I just want to know what your little boyfriend is worth to you.”

 _Everything_.

I don’t know when I forgot my anger — and I’m sure there will be plenty of time to be angry later — but Bernice is staring at me with murder in her eyes and a self-confident smirk and I know there’s no room for error. Suddenly it occurs to me that I could spend the rest of eternity without him — the thought is awful, paralyzing even — so I take a deep breath and say, “Just name your price.”

There’s no hand to play.

There’s no strategy that will work.

She’s cut off every one of my escape routes and contingency plans. I’ve never felt so helpless, and I briefly hate him for it, but mostly I hate Bernice — and Camille. Again. And _he_ acted like it didn’t matter if she was locked up or not.

Bernice grins again and then my gaze slides over to the safe full of blood. She follows my eyes and looks there too. “Oh, dear, not blood,” she says with a little laugh. “Maybe _you_ call us barbarians, but drinking out of a bag really _does_ take all the fun out of it. We _are_ vampires, aren’t we?”

 _Vampires don’t have to be savages_ is exactly what I would’ve said under any other circumstances, but suddenly I’m acutely aware of the fact that she referenced _ten minutes_ at the beginning of the conversation, and a few minutes have already ticked by. “Then, what?” I snap. “Money?”

“No.”

“What?”

“We want Camille reinstated.”

I sit down heavily.

I would’ve given her every drop of blood in the entire hotel; I could’ve been a normal savage vampire if I had to. I would’ve emptied my very significant bank account — anything material, I could’ve stolen or talked my way into, but this? _This_?

I’ve worked my entire immortal life to put her away, and now?

It’s all undone, it’s all fallen apart. And even worse? I’ll lose everything — I’ll be forced out, without a clan or a home, back to walking the hell on earth that being a vampire can feel like if you aren’t careful. It's bad enough to be a monster, let alone to feel like one.

And the worst part is that all of them — Stan, Lily, _everyone_ — will have to suffer through Camille again. Decades again, maybe centuries. And for once, I can’t do anything.

Maybe this is why Simon has been acting like this. It’s hell to feel this _powerless_.

Fuck, we’ve both been awful to each other.

And Bernice has a wide, toothy grin spreading across her face. She finally pulls her claws out of my gold couch and examines one of her hands lazily. “She already has that Writ of Transmutation, but no one thinks that a standoff between the two of you would be particularly _good_. So if you’d just agree to back out quietly — and tell all your watchdogs listening outside the door to do the same — you can have Simon back.”

“This is what Camille wants?” I ask, barely getting the words out.

“Oh, Camille doesn’t know _what_ she wants. We _all_ think this is for our best interests. But you know Camille — she’d probably just wants to fuck your fledgling boyfriend and forget all about the big picture.”

 _Years_ of hell.

Cleaning up her messes. Placating victims, hiding subjugates, trying and trying and _trying_ to keep some semblance of peace and order. Trying to nudge things in the right direction, and then when things _finally_ worked out, Simon happened.

 _This_ happened.

And now everything would go back to how it was.

But even worse.

Her smile fades into a thin expectant frown, her ice blue eyes leave no room for error, her back tenses and she looks like a coiled snake, and her nails tap impatiently against the top of the sofa.

“Fine,” I say, feeling even more disgusted at her immediate grin. “I’ll concede the Chapter President position back to Camille.”

I feel nauseated.

“I have a little contract for you to sign.”

“Of course you do,” I sigh.

She pulls it out of her coat with a flourish and watches with a gleeful look on her face as I sign it after no more than a perfunctory glance — too nervous and aware of my impending time limit to give it its proper due. Too anxious and disgusted to let myself think about the consequences.

“The great Raphael Santiago finally lost the war, huh?” she says softly.

“Just tell me where Simon is,” I snap, already walking towards the door.

* * *

_Simon_

The panic settles over me, rapidly but ice cold.

I remember when I first became a vampire, I just wanted to feel the sunlight again. _Sometimes I still feel warm_ , he told me. I wonder if I ever made him feel like that. But now I smell the air and her scent lingers all over it — it’s been days that feel like years, but of course I still remember Camille. Her rough laugh, her condescending smile, the way her fangs had been bared before she lunged at me.

How terrified I had been.

And now it feels almost paralyzing.

It looks kind of like the area surrounding the Jade Wolf, but I know I’m miles away. It’s just because it’s next to water and looks fairly shitty — abandoned warehouses everywhere. The familiarity isn't a comfort.

I take a step away, wanting to retreat. My every instinct warns me to _run_ , but I force myself to move further in, her scent burning my nose more with every step. I know there’s no chance of me surprising her; even if it weren’t for the fact that Bernice informed her I was coming, there’s also the small fact that if I can smell her, she can surely smell _me_.

I’m alone, I’m _on my own_ — self-imposed exile, or maybe just normal exile (it’s kind of hard to tell) — and I’m going to do something. It’s time to do _something_.

I guess maybe he’s right. Maybe all those years waiting around for a soulmate was just like doing nothing — or maybe wanting him without knowing him was even worse than nothing. But maybe there’s one thing I can do.

It’s hard to know what normal is anymore; being willing to lay down your life without giving it any real thought — that’s _ab_ normal, right? But I don’t feel _wrong_ about it. I’m tired and scared and cold and lonely, but something about it doesn’t feel like it’s a bad idea. At least it’s moving forward instead of just stagnating, like I have been ever since he told me what he is — who he is.

He’s been alive for decades and decades without me, walking around and seeing the world and experiencing _everything,_ and at the moment he was born, my words were on his arm. And he lived all that time without me, not waiting for me and not wanting me, but with the knowledge that I’d eventually be _there_. And is it wrong that I can’t help but like the fact that for more than sixty years before I was even born, it was known that I _would be_? That somehow all of this would happen and our lives would intersect?

It would be comforting if he didn’t hate it so much.

Maybe he wishes that I didn’t _want_ to be soulmates, but I can’t change that now.

I take a deep breath and wade further into Camille’s scent, trying to remember every second of the few hours total that I spent training with Raphael.

-

She’s sitting casually, long bare legs crossed on a nice furniture set that clearly doesn’t belong in such a dusty old building. Her white teeth seem more blinding than ever, her hair looks far more frazzled than usual, and there’s a catlike manner about her that seems far more amplified from how she used to be. It’s as if living on her own for a few days has only made her more determined, more cruel, more prepared to attack first and ask questions later. She seems _feral_ in a way she didn’t before.

Despite the ostensibly casual way she’s sitting, her eyes never leave me. I wonder how much what Raphael did to her fucked her up. She deserved it. I shouldn’t have let her go.

“Simon Lewis,” she says, and her voice has nothing on the beauty of his.

“Um, hi,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets, fingers of my right hand brushing against the wooden stake I brought. I wonder what kind of brilliant strategies I would’ve come up with if I were as smart as Raphael. Maybe I could’ve plotted some sort of grand plan, some long-term manipulation. Maybe I could’ve snuck up on her — even _that_ would’ve been an improvement. Instead I’m just here, no plan; I just have a short-range weapon with my only potential advantage _maybe_ that she would never even consider me a threat.

God, it was a fucking miracle that he ever fell in love with me in the first place. No wonder he can’t stand me now.

“What is it?” she asks, and I think at first that maybe she was going for flirtatious, but her dark eyes narrow as I take a step forward.

“Bernice told you, right? That I want to, uh, get back at Raphael?”

Her eyes narrow but then her tone is sugary-sweet, all light and teasing, “You two seemed pretty close the one time I saw you together.”

I try hard to stop memories of that day from flooding into my brain. I brace my back and start, “We were but—”

“He’s in love with you,” she interrupts, serious again. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

“Yeah, but—”

Then she laughs, her high-pitched giggle even worse to hear than I remember. She hops off the couch and saunters over to me. “Great, big, holier-than-thou Raphael Santiago, in love with such a _normal_ little fledgling,” she giggles as she walks.

I try hard not to flinch away and instead grab the wooden stake in my pocket. It feels like feels like fire in my hand, and I don’t know if that’s because a vampire shouldn’t be holding a vampire-killing weapon or if it’s just because I’m terrified.

“I don’t know why you came here, but just _get out_ ,” she snarls once she gets close. Her breath feels _wrong_ against my ear, and I almost back away again. But I meet her eyes again — cold, angry, deadly.

And I know I’ll never be this close to her again.

I gradually pull the weapon out of my pocket, and then I lunge. I try to jam it into some part of her body before she can realize what’s happening, but I barely graze her skin before she jumps back with a hiss. My stomach sinks; I’m still holding onto my weapon tightly but I know that was my only real chance and I’ve lost it in the fastest second.

Her fangs are bared.

“I knew it,” she growls, taking a slow step forward.

Then suddenly she’s lurching forward and I can barely see her anymore. I only know where she is when I feel her hand grab at my neck — suddenly her claws are at my throat — and then my back slams against a wall I hadn’t realized was there. Before I know what’s happening, her other hand is locked around my wrist, rendering my already fairly useless weapon completely unusable. I try feebly to break out of her iron hold, but I know there’s no way I can get away from her.

I want to attack and I want to give up. I don’t know which instincts are human and which are vampire; I don’t know which ones are _right_. I just know that she’s looking at me with an ever-growing smile.

Suddenly I smell my own blood as her nails sink into the skin of my neck. And then I feel the pain of it and let out a low gasp.

I can feel every millimeter as she digs further into my skin — a scream rips out of my throat from the pain of it — and then her soft, feminine giggle makes its way to my consciousness. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers in my ear. I shudder.

I’ve never really thought about dying before, but I never could've expected it to be this anticlimactic, with me just standing here thinking: _Well I guess this is it_.

There’s nothing flashing before my eyes. No maybes, no what-ifs, no shining accomplishments — not much of anything, really. My life was really nothing but _mundane_ , up until him.

_This is it._

I sigh and let my eyes flicker away from her for just a second to look at the marks on my arm. _Please stop talking_ used to be a grandiose concept but now it’s just him.

“Sorry,” I breathe out, not to Camille but just because it seems fitting. Maybe it should be the last thing I ever say.

Then she sniffs and suddenly looks at something straight past me. She was already threatening enough before, but the way her entire body changes — tossing me away and shifting into an attack position — makes me realize she’d barely even had her guard up with me. I rub my neck.

Of course I wasn’t even a threat to her.

I allow myself to glance back and I see _him_ there.

I exhale for what feels like the first time in years. Raphael is staring straight past me at Camille, but he’s still _there_ — in all his buttoned up, pressed suit perfection, looking like he’s out for a light stroll to the nearest fine dining institution rather than here — presumably — to save me.

And after the relief, I’m just annoyed with myself.

I wasn’t _supposed_ to be saved by him again. I’m not supposed to just fuck up and fuck up and fuck up. I was _supposed_ to do something right or die trying.

Then it occurs to me that he could die trying to help me.

_Fuck._

Camille takes a step forward and I watch as Raphael crouches to match her stance. Suddenly I feel more powerless than ever.

I take a deep breath and steel myself.

When she lunges forward, I do too.

I meet her halfway and shove her back, stake in my hand. I still don’t know where I’m aiming, but I shove the stake in the first place I can reach the second I feel the two of us collide. It catches something and she gives a shriek, and suddenly I feel myself thrown to the ground, fangs or claws on my neck again. I’m screaming again. The scent of my own blood is stronger this time as it pours out of my body. I feel it pooling in a way that would be concerning if I had any time to be concerned.

“ _Simon_ ,” he shouts, and then Camille’s weight is off me.

I try to watch them, allowing the stake to clatter onto the ground. I don’t have the strength to hold it anymore; it’s hard enough to stay conscious.

I can barely tell where one of their bodies ends and the other begins. It’s all fangs and claws spinning in a complex dance. I try to scramble up, just to see. I try to keep my eyes on Raphael. _Please be okay_ , I think frantically, the words on the tip of my tongue, but it feels silly to say them and my body feels unresponsive.

Suddenly there’s a crash and both of them go down. There’s blood everywhere and her fangs on his neck and “ _Raphael_ ” is being torn out of my throat. I try to move but my legs don’t seem to work and then both Raphael and Camille are lying there still. “Raphael,” I say more softly now, not because I don’t want to shout his name a thousand times, but because my head is swimming.

Magnus is at my side — when did Magnus get here? — and I’m frantically saying, “No! Raphael — help Raphael.”

Then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight irregularity of switching POV's an extra time, but I felt it was necessary.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and reviewing! We're nearing the end, so hearing from you is more important/inspiring than ever :)


	12. Wreckage

_Simon_

I wake up slowly. It feels like there’s a thick veil of fog over my brain. I try to fight through it, but opening my eyes doesn’t help. I look around as frantically as my body will allow me — I feel heavy all over, my muscles unresponsive — but the white bed and white room are nothing that I’ve ever seen before. I don’t know how I got here. It takes my slow brain a few more paralyzing seconds before memories flash in my mind unimpeded, confusing at first but they build up and build up and suddenly I _remember_.

Everything that happened — Bernice, Camille, Raphael.

_Raphael_.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a train, but I still frantically scramble up in bed, wincing with every movement. Then there’s a light but firm touch on my shoulder and a small, pale hand reaching forward cautiously. I stare at her skin, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach as I accept that it isn’t him.

I look up. Clary is staring at me with wide, concerned eyes. Not the kind of look that someone gives you when they have _good_ news.

“Where is he?” I ask. I swing one leg off the bed and go to stand, but she presses both her hands on my shoulders and I collapse back — I’d normally make an excuse about my weakened state, but being overpowered by Clary is the last thing on my mind. “ _What_?” I snap. Does she not _understand?_ She’s clearly had _ages_ longer than me to understand my frantic worry right now. But Clary just looks hesitant, a little sad — understated emotions, nothing like that’s building up inside me right now.

He was lying there. He looked dead.

_Dead_.

Vampires are immortal, right? He can’t be dead, right?

_Right?_

“ _Talk to me_ ,” I say desperately, not feeling any better when her hands wrap around one of mine and her eyes are full of pity.

“You lost a lot of blood—”

“But _Raphael_ , Clary.”

It looks like she hates having to say the words, but she finally tells me quietly, “Magnus is with him in the infirmary, working on healing him—”

“But he’s — but he’s going to be fine,” I say, ripping my hand from hers.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just stares at me silently and bites on her bottom lip. My vision glazes over and I look from her to the doorway.

“No,” I whisper, but she still doesn’t say anything. It feels like every part of me is collapsing in on itself. I can’t even look at her. I viscerally want to blame her for this — someone, _anyone_. Clary, Camille — it doesn’t matter — anyone but me. It feels like my cells are turning against each other, and I need someone to be at fault.

I sigh raggedly.

Because it’s _my_ fault.

I feel myself start to shudder all over and I bury my face in my hands. Her arms are wrapping around me, but I shake her off immediately.

“Take me to him,” I demand in a voice that isn’t very steady.

-

Useless, as always.

The door to the infirmary is locked and no one has come in or out. Despite my insistence that she use one of her stupid runes and force the door open, Clary just shakes her head with a soft sigh. We argue about it for a few minutes, but then her voice is short and angry, her eyes have that steely look, and I know I’ve lost the war. So I sink onto the floor of the hallway, accepting that I can’t do anything. If I were in _there_ , I could at least try to offer something. My bones or blood or part of my immortal life — but that’s all just dramatic and poetic and really I’m just _useless_.

It’s not a very comfortable place to sit and I vaguely hear Clary’s voice as she suggests a few better places for us to wait, but I just ignore her. I wrap my arms around my knees stubbornly and stare straight ahead at the door.

-

At some point, Isabelle shows up and shoves a cell phone into my hand. “I’m really sorry that you have to go through all this… But you should just trust Magnus,” she says, to which I respond with just another tired frown. She leaves and I start reading Raphael’s messages. And then keep reading them. Over and over again — I don’t know which stings worse, the _don’t do anything stupid_ or the final message, that simple _please_.

Something about it makes me want to cry.

“He really cares about you,” Clary tells me.

I turn towards her with a scowl that I don’t even try to curb. She doesn’t look particularly abashed.

Then she lets us sit in silence again.

-

My chin is resting on my knees. I’m sore all over just from sitting here, but I refuse to move anytime anyone asks. Clary left for a few minutes and comes back smelling like she’d just eaten. She mentions that Jocelyn wants to come over and talk to me, but something about the look on my face has her sinking onto the ground next to me without another word about it. She hands me a glass of blood and I drink it down in a few gulps — not because I’m more thirsty than usual, but because I don’t want to spare any extra thought to the act of being a vampire.

“I’m a monster, aren’t I, Clary?” I ask a few minutes later, still not looking at her.

“Simon, you know that’s not—”

“I mean, _technically_ , I’m a monster,” I interrupt impatiently. “Like, I’m not going to heaven when I die. This is _it_ for me. Hundreds of years, millennia, even, and my life will still be _this_ — I’ll look like this, I’ll feel like this. And it stopped feeling so shitty because of _him_. It felt okay because of _him._ I mean — if God had to punish me, why did it have to be _Raphael_?”

“Simon, that’s not—”

“He was supposed to be with me the whole time,” I say, my voice cracking. “ _Forever_.”

“I know the feeling.”

Then I look at her — really _look_ at her — for the first time in what feels like hours. Her orange hair is unkempt, her clothes are rumpled, and she looks exhausted like she hasn’t slept in ages. For the first time in days, I’m finally grateful for her being there. We traveled the world together; we found a _new_ world.

This world seemed like some sort of wonderful fate at first — getting a Hogwarts letter caliber of awesome — something that made us _special_ , but it hasn’t been very kind of either of us.

I reach over and rest my hand on top of hers. A month ago, I would’ve imagined a million wildly romantic scenarios, but it finally just feels _normal_. As calm and easy and comfortable as friendship is supposed to be. Her lips curve upward just slightly and she squeezes my hand back.

“How do you stand it?” I ask. “Waiting for Jace?”

She laughs bitterly and breaks our eye contact. “Lots of distractions.”

I sigh and look away from her, too. I know she’s probably implying — once again — that I shouldn’t be sitting here like this, waiting an indeterminable amount of time with nothing to do but dwell on it. But the thought of going anywhere else makes me feel even shittier.

“Thanks for waiting with me,” I finally say softly.

-

Clary leaves for a few minutes, so when I hear footsteps, I assume they’re hers. When I bother to look over, it’s Lily, staring down at me with raised eyebrows. Her demeanor is expectant, but I just sigh. “Magnus is still in there,” I say unnecessarily, my gaze sliding to the closed door. I give another bitter frown, wishing the heat of my anger was enough to get Magnus to hurry up.

“And do you care what’s happening at the hotel?”

_I thought I was banished_ , I think about saying, but then I realize — too late, of course, because the important realizations _always_ come too late — that _he_ would care. He would be concerned about the fate of his — our? — clan. So I look back at her, startled that she’s eyeing me like I’m something disgusting. She’s never looked at me like that before.

“Yeah,” I say lamely. “Tell me.”

It’s hard to care about anything when I don’t even know if Raphael is alive or dead. After all, it’s a world I would’ve run away from for years if he hadn’t pulled me in, helped me out, trained me, stayed with me. So it’s all for him that I try hard to pay attention as Lily says, “Well, I’m sure you know Camille’s dead.” I nod even though I hadn’t known that — to be honest, I hadn’t even bothered to ask. She’d only crossed my mind as the thing that might have killed Raphael.

I’m glad she’s dead.

I feel sick, just thinking that. Thinking that someone like _me_ — a _monster_ like me — is better off dead. The feeling isn’t alleviated at all by that look Lily is giving me, like I’m a bug that really ought to be crushed.

“The Clave is going to launch a full-scale investigation once Raphael is awake,” she says, voice tightly controlled. “Some higher-up vampires aren’t too happy, either. Raphael signed a contract giving Camille and the nomads control of the clan — they’re going to enforce the contract soon and probably lock Raphael up.”

My chest tightens and I bury my face in my knees again, unable to even look at her. I can’t handle _all this_ — it’s too much, way too much. I can barely even handle the unknown behind the door, let alone anything that Lily is saying.

“I thought maybe all these little Shadowhunters would be too nice to tell you this, Simon Lewis, but you fucked us all over. You destroyed our whole fucking world — everything Raphael worked for. All because you’re soulmates? You don’t deserve him.”

_I know_ , I almost say, but the words are strangled in my throat.

I hear her footsteps recede down the hallway, but I still can’t look up. I try hard to hold myself together, clutching my knees tighter against my chest and stopping my breathing altogether. A couple minutes later there’s a soft hand on my shoulder and Clary’s voice in my ear, “What happened?”

I don’t say anything.

-

I lurch off the floor and forward the second I hear the doorknob jingle. Alec opens the door, looking exhausted, but I lunge straight past him without even a word.

Raphael is just lying there in a white bed. It’s impossible to tell if he’s dead or alive. I stop abruptly a foot away from him and just stand there wordlessly. I think my mouth is hanging open.

“Magnus?” I finally ask, unable to look away from Raphael.

“It’s hard to tell.” Then he yawns loudly. “I’ve done everything I can, all we can do now is wait.”

I glance up at him. “You don’t _know_?” I snap. “Then why the fuck did you _stop_?”

“It looks promising, Simon. There really is nothing we can do but wait.”

I glare at him — I want to yell at him, but he looks exhausted, too. Half-dead, even. His hair doesn’t have that typical Magnus charm, and it looks like whatever outfit he had been wearing had been systematically discarded because he’s just in black pants and a white undershirt. His eyeliner is smudged, and he hangs onto Alec’s hand like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him upright.

All because he was trying to fix my mistakes. I let my glare fade and just nod at him. “Thank you,” I say sincerely, my voice cracking.

Then I turn back to Raphael. I walk around to the side of his bed, feeling all sorts of cliché — the white hospital bed, a prostrate body, my throat closing up like I might start sobbing. But just because I’ve seen this scene in every movie doesn’t make it feel less _real_ — the sadness, the desperation, the helplessness. I just feel small and shitty. Nothing could’ve prepared me for this. There was some sort of righteous anger when I waited on the other side of the door, but there’s nothing here but reality.

Cold, hard, shitty reality.

It feels like years since the last time I talked to him — and the memory is so vivid, him standing there after he ordered me to leave. A bitter half-smile fading on his face, hand clutching his soulmarks, eyes narrowed and intense.

Now, though? Now that perfect hair isn’t styled at all, his face is blank, and he’s covered by a blanket. I can faintly smell blood and I can see his bare shoulder, so I wonder if his discarded clothes are around. I reach out, not realizing my hand is shaking until I see it extended. I manage to brush back a strand of his hair that’s out of place, unable to stop myself from thinking that he’d never allow me to do this if he were awake.

Then I sit down in the chair next to his bed, feeling unsteady, and cross my arms over my chest just to stop them from shaking. Ready to wait again.

“Please don’t die,” I say quietly. “Please.”

Lily was right.

It’s impossible to deny, here in this harsh white room next to his still body. I _fucked_ _up_ , and I _deserve_ this pain.

-

A couple hours later, he finally moves. I jump off my chair and lean over him, watching as his head rocks slightly from side to side. I wait impatiently — forcing myself to stay silent, quite a feat itself — as a moan escapes from him. I take a quick second to text Magnus that’s he’s awake, barely glancing at my phone. I feel myself shaking again, acutely feeling the sleep deprivation and thirst and anxiety that everyone warned me about. My nerves are hanging on by a thread.

Then he opens his eyes.

They’re the same dark brown I remember, but I’ve never seen them look so confused before.

But I nearly start crying just seeing him _awake_.

“Thank God,” I say, and it occurs to me a moment too late that it’s the first time I’ve been able to say God since becoming a vampire.

He meets my eyes, and after just a second, I see the recognition there. I can’t decide whether to step backward or forward. But before I can even think through it, he reaches up, out of his blanket, exposing the top half of his body. I barely get a dazed glance at his bare chest before he yanks me down. He doesn’t seem very strong but I’m certainly also weak from my own injuries, and I barely manage to throw my arm down to catch myself as I half-fall onto the bed. Both his arms wrap around my neck.

For a second I freeze, wondering if I’m dreaming, but there’s no imagining the feeling of his strong, bare arms wrapped around my neck. His soft breath by my ear. I breathe him in; I don’t think I realized how well I had memorized his scent until these days without him.

Now it unravels me even further.

“You’re okay?” he asks, voice quiet but intense in my ear.

“ _You’re_ the one who almost died,” I say, half laughing and half crying. Then I’m fully crying — I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly I’m sobbing. My arm, the only thing that was supporting me, collapses too, and then I’m in the bed with him. He buries his face in my neck as I shift to the side. I was so used to being on the other side of the door that it’s hard to believe this is real, but we’re lying side by side and I’m crying into him.

Once my tears start, I can’t stop them. My head is somewhere between him and the blankets; I open my eyes but all I see is darkness so I’m inclined to think that my face is buried in the sheets. It occurs to me that I should be embarrassed about crying, but it’s way too late and I’ve been hanging on by a thread for what feels like days but was probably a good twelve hours.

It’s a few minutes before he pulls away. “I thought you were dead,” he says, reaching out and brushing his fingers against my cheek. I lean into his touch and hesitantly reach up to put my hand over his. I’m shocked when he doesn’t pull away. I feel like he’s never allowed this before — his eyes wide and earnest, seemingly no façade up at all. This isn’t the vampire king who kicked me out, this is the guy who played video games with me when I couldn’t sleep, the guy who woke up and crawled onto the floor where I was sleeping in the middle of the night.

His hands are warm on my face and suddenly I almost want to cry again.

“I thought _you_ were dead,” I whisper, trailing my hand up his arm.

“Is Camille dead?”

“Yeah, she is.”

He looks conflicted for a second and then asks, “And the Clan?”

“There haven’t been any battles or anything, I think Lily is handling things.” I feel a little guilty about stopping there, but I don’t want to think about the things she accused me of — not when I’m here with the soft, warm Raphael who’s bitterly hated me for so long.

“You’re sure?”

I nod. “She stopped over a couple hours ago.”

There’s a long pause, and his face goes from angry to relieved to annoyed. “Please don’t do that again,” he says, but before I can even question which of my many mistakes he could be talking about, he leans forward and kisses me.

I’m about ninety-nine percent sure I’m dreaming — I never could’ve imagined that Raphael would forgive me, let alone go straight to _kissing_ me. But his lips are soft but firm on mine, and he’s about as against me as he can be with the four blankets piled between us. I kiss him back desperately, lightheaded for about a thousand reasons. I never thought this could happen again. I try not to press against him too much in case it breaks whatever magical spell we _must_ be under — this can’t be real, right? — but he just gets closer and closer and his tongue slides into my mouth. There’s some noise in the back of my throat that certainly isn’t far from a growl and I kiss him back hard. His hands are still memorizing my face and I let my fingers thread through his hair. Then he pulls away abruptly. I can barely stop myself for going in for more. His mouth is open and he’s panting and for once he looks even more undone than I feel.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

“ _I_ kissed _you_ ,” he sighs.

I sit up in bed. “No — for everything. For all the shit I did. For putting you — and the clan and everyone — in danger. I just—” I break off, shaking my head.

“Why did you do it?”

“I just — I just wanted to fix it. I wanted to _help_. I wanted to make things right.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, and just like that, the magic is gone. I knew it couldn’t last, but I still feel a shiver down my spine at how cold it feels. His hands are long gone from my face and he’s staring straight past me and his lips are set in a hard line. Suddenly I wonder if he ever even kissed me or if I’m imagining it.

“Raphael—”

He’s rolling onto his back when the door opens. He grabs a sweatshirt I don’t remember discarding and yanks it on, not bothering to zip it up as Magnus walks in. I guess things didn’t change as much as it seemed. I can’t help but be distracted by the sight of him all over again — there’s still something surprising about it, this feeling of lusting after a man in a way I never have before. But my head goes fuzzy with all of that skin exposed, and it’s all I can do to look away. I scramble up, watching as Magnus looks between us with a smirk on his face.

“Feeling better?” he asks. 

* * *

_Raphael_

There are a lot of excuses I could make. When I first saw him, standing there leaning over me, eyes wide and anxious, all I could think was that he was _alive_. Nothing else matted. Not my anger, my bitterness, my concern for my clan, or even the surprising fact that _I_ still managed to be alive. I was just happy he’d survived.

When I reached up and pulled him down and felt him against me, that’s the first time I’ve ever wanted anyone in that way. Everything from his warmth, the sound of his breathing in my ear, the feeling of him under my arms. The physicality of another person had never impacted me, until him. Sex with other men was sometimes okay and sometimes pretty good, but it always felt like a chore. Everything about him feels different, and I haven’t come anywhere close to having sex with him. When he fell onto the bed, that was just _more_ of him. And for once being surrounded by Simon didn’t bother me — I wanted him, and I wanted even more.

I shouldn’t have kissed him, but for once I _wanted_ to — desired it strongly like Camille always told me was “normal”. Normal is hard to understand when your world is in a state of chaos, but I just knew that I wanted to kiss him. So I did, and then I knew that I liked the way he felt against me. I was still mad at him in the back of some part of my mind, but I just wanted to touch him. It occurred to me briefly that if this is what’s normal, maybe that’s why everyone else around me makes such stupid decisions all the time.

I guess I could blame it on just waking up from nearly dying, but it took a while for the spell to fade.

“I just wanted to make things right,” he says, and — just like that — it’s gone. His wide, earnest eyes, warmer and hopeful now after that kiss, bore into me. He’s mesmerizing as always, but he leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. I look past him, seeing his eyes go even wider in my peripheral vision.

“You shouldn’t have,” I tell him. He’ll always be nothing but a liability; there’s nothing good about a person who makes me forget about everything important for such an extended period of time. Maybe Camille would call it normal, but I would call it a distraction. A weakness.

Camille _would have_ called it normal. She _would have_.

I killed her.

I lie on my back, wanting to face away from Simon. Maybe it’s petty and childish, but I hate the way he _destroys_ me. I’ve lived more than four of his lifetimes, but nothing during all those years helped me build up a tolerance to him. He makes those few other men I was with feel inconsequential by comparison — loving them and sometimes fucking them never came with this desperation, this confusion, this need to look away to so much as retain sanity.

The door opens and all I can do is grab the first piece of clothing I see. As I tug it on, I can smell him on it. I think about zipping it up, but the way his eyes can’t seem to move from my bare skin is satisfying in that same destructive way, so I leave it open. At least it reassures me that I’m not the only one being affected by this. Then he jolts up in the bed and looks at Magnus, who’s smirking in that way only he can.

“Feeling better?” Magnus asks playfully, his tone belied by the way his eyes are scrutinizing us.

Smugness is radiating off him; I would move, but I’m now distinctly aware that I’m only wearing boxers and I certainly don’t want to leave the protective layer of blankets. I can’t even imagine the look Simon would give me, but I know it wouldn’t end well for my willpower. I don’t like having these limitations, but the least I can do is acknowledge they exist.

“Actually, Simon, could you give us a minute?” Magnus asks abruptly. “You know, medical examination and all that.”

Simon gives him a wide-eyed look that he then turns back to me. His eyes are intense in a new way — something I don’t think I’ve ever seen before and can’t figure out. “I waited for hours out there,” he finally whispers to me, “please don’t shut me out again.”

Maybe it’s dichotomy like this that always tears me up: hating him for always managing to ask something of me, but trying to remember how young he is and how scared he looks. Maybe it’s harder, considering I’m always surrounded by people, many of whom don’t look any older than Simon, so sometimes I forget that immortality itself doesn’t instantaneously age you.

“Just for a minute,” I say quietly, looking away from him.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says; I don’t know if I’m imagining the challenge in his tone or not. But I find myself staring at the door even after he’s closed it behind him. There’s a part of me that immediately wants to call him back. I can envision him out there, his back arched as he leans against the door he just closed, head tilting back until it bumps against the door, giving a sigh as he stares at the white ceiling. But I can just as easily imagine him just walking away, going back to his Shadowhunters in that _other_ world he seems to belong to in equal measure.

I sigh.

Sacrificing my clan was passing the point of no return.

“Simon said the clan was okay,” I finally say, pulling my gaze away from the door. Magnus is staring at me with raised eyebrows and a smirk on his face. “Is that true?” I press.

“I’m not as well-versed in all your convoluted politics, but I think Lily has been holding everything down for now.”

I pick my phone up from the bedside table, but slam it back down when I realize it’s dead. “Great. Can I go now?” My voice is still too sharp, but I’m tired of hearing information second-hand. And without Simon around to dilute the air, the smell of angel blood is too strong. I start to get up, even though I feel a little too weak, but I can’t have the clan suffering even more because of my mistakes. And lately, those mistakes have been nothing short of constant.

“They’ll be fine waiting an extra five minutes for you,” he says, shoving my shoulder back. I collapse onto my back too easily and just give him a tired frown. “Did he crawl into bed with you?” he asks. Unceremoniously, purple magic is radiating out of his hands and he’s running them up and down about a foot over my body. There’s a tingling sensation that may or may not be psychological.

I briefly consider lying, but then I wonder how it would feel to say it out loud. So I admit, “I pulled him into bed with me. I wanted him. I kissed him.”

The purple sparks disappear as his eyebrows jut upwards again. “You woke up from being about eighty percent dead — yes, I am a fucking miracle worker, you’re welcome, by the way — and then you kissed him for the first time?”

I sigh; I’m already regretting telling him. “Technically it was the second time.”

He sits down next to me. The serious look on his face is disconcerting. “You’d think he would’ve bragged to me about that.”

I shake my head and look away from him. “I think he immediately went to Bernice,” I say quietly, staring again at the door. “Otherwise I’m sure he would’ve.” I wonder how Simon felt when he was trapped outside the door waiting for me — judging from his tone, it had been like hell for him. It’s easy to believe him when he sounds like that, but it’s impossible to trust him when he’s somewhere else.

“And the first time — who instigated it?”

“Who cares?” I snap.

“You know I live for gossip, Raphael,” he says in a tone that I’d probably believe was light and airy if I hadn’t known him for so long. As it is, I look back at him and it looks like he’s trying to stare right through me.

“It was me,” I say, a bitter laugh coming out. I clasp my hands behind my head and look at the ceiling.

“You’re in love with him,” he says, hovering at the exact point between a statement and a question that prevents any righteous indignation I might otherwise be able to muster the energy to have.

“I don’t know how you’ve managed to stand being in love so many times before.”

“It comes more naturally to some of us than others.”

I look at him again, pulling myself back up into a sitting position, since apparently has medical examination has devolved into a psychological one. He’s looking at me hard with a wide grin on his face. “Just say it,” I groan.

“ _Wow_ ,” he finally says, his hands moving so fast I can barely see them. “Wow, wow, _wow_. Raphael Santiago, in love. In love with his _soulmate_. In love with _Simon Lewis_! To be honest, you could probably do better, though.”

I snort. “Supportive as always.”

“You’re not going to freeze him out forever, are you?”

So melodramatic. “Forever is a long time to us.”

“Don’t be your typical vague self. I just want you to be happy. _Forever_.”

“I know,” I say softly.

“You’re young for an immortal. Forever feels a lot shorter when you have someone.”

There are a lot of things I consider saying — most of them unnecessarily angry. “Even when it fails?” I finally ask. After all, he’s been alive for centuries and he met his soulmate days ago. The blink of an eye for someone his age.

“Do you think you’re destined to fail?”

I think of him again — on the other side of the door. “I’m sorry about Camille, you know,” I say quietly.

He looks surprised for a second, probably at the abrupt change of topic. Then he waves his hand dismissively. “It’s certainly not as though I’m happy about it. But… but I think I would’ve done the same thing in your position.” There are a million things left unsaid in that statement, but I think we both realize that we’ll have a million years to discuss it, but not now. I nod at him, sighing.

Then I hoist myself out of bed with a small groan and finally notice a neat pile of black clothes on my bedside table.

“I really _do_ recommend another day of rest,” he says in a light, indulgent voice that lets me know everything is forgiven in a way no amount of words from him could have ever reassured me.

“Simon was being more than a little evasive about the clan,” I say, tugging on my pants. “I can’t stay among the angels any longer.” Then I pull a black shirt on, not bothering to button it as I walk back to the door. I yank it open and see Simon sitting just outside, arms wrapped around his knees. He meets my eyes before his gaze drops down to my bare chest. I was reaching to latch the first button, but I fumble. A second later, I get it, but that doesn’t stop me from being pissed at myself. He’s scrambling to his feet and looking at my face expectantly.

“Can you portal us to the Hotel?” I ask Magnus, my shirt all buttoned and tucked, allowing me to finally put on my belt. By the time Simon comes up behind me, I’m shrugging into a jacket. It’s more comfortable to be put together, but when I look at him, his eyes are moving over me in a way that’s more than a little disconcerting.

“Sure,” Magnus answers a few seconds too late, voice laced with amusement.

“If you want to come,” I say to Simon, looking at him as Magnus creates the portal.

He reaches out and brushes his hand against my arm. It’s all I can do to not flinch away. “Anything,” he finally says, the intensity of his gaze not fading in the slightest. “Thanks for letting me.”

“God knows what you’d do otherwise.” I try to keep my tone normal but there’s a bitter edge to it that makes him flinch. I sigh sharply. “Let’s go,” I say, walking through the portal first.

-

When I walk into the Hotel, I see Bernice first. Her copper-red hair that I remember as being wild is smoothed, straightened, and perfect; she has on a slim-fitting dress that’s different from the jeans and flannel shirt from the last time I saw her; and she’s wearing make-up this time, bright red lips and eyelashes that go almost all the way up to her painted-black eyebrows. She looks like a caricature of glamour, but I wonder how many people would fall for it.

Her red lips spread into a wide, stomach-churning grin when she sees me. Her gaze briefly snaps to Simon before looking back at me, her grin impossibly wider. “Made it back alive?” she asks, bouncing on her heels.

“Apparently,” I say, taking a step closer to Simon. I reach for him protectively without looking, feeling his hand slip into mine. I hadn’t meant for the casual, intimate gesture of holding his hand, and I feel myself freeze. I almost falter and look at him, but I can’t glance away from the threat, even as he threads our fingers together. I think about pulling my hand away, but at least it guarantees that Simon hasn’t run off again — at least, that’s what I tell myself, unable to stop the relief and comfort of feeling his hand squeezing against mine softly, a mark of his feelings in a way I’ve never known.

Something clenches in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s because of Simon or because I’ve never known Bernice to so much as run a comb through her hair, let alone stand in front of me looking like she’s going to a photo shoot for business professional attire.

“Unlike poor Camille,” she says, examining her nails, painted the exact shade of red as her lipstick.

Simon’s hand tightening on mine is the only thing that keeps me from snapping at her. I glance back at him, but he’s full of wide-eyed confusion.

“I see the happy couple is back together,” she adds, her voice softer and smoother than ever.

“Who said you could be here?” I growl.

“I did,” another voice says. I spin around, only vaguely recognizing her, but that recognition is more than enough to shock me. I grip Simon’s hand harder, feeling my nails sink into his skin as I tense. It’s only at his sharp intake of breath that I relax my grip just enough to stop hurting him.

“Imogen Herondale,” I say in a flat tone, pushing Simon back just slightly so I can still see both women clearly.

“The Clave has decided to help investigate this matter.” Her voice is too high-pitched for how she looks — that high-collar, buttoned up, pencil skirt and blazer look. There’s a soft smile on her face but her eyes are narrowed harshly. It couldn’t be more obvious that she doesn’t think much of Downworlders, and from what Magnus has told me about her, I could’ve expected that.

“Only vampires were involved.” I try to keep my expression blank, but I wonder how much decorum matters when I’m still clutching Simon’s hand.

“Be that as it may, this directly affects the peace of the entire Shadow world. The Clave is more than within its authority to intervene in the event that we can prevent what is almost certain to be a civil war.”

“And you have the authority to make that judgment call?”

“Clearly.” She frowns at me, a warning look.

“And I suppose there’s a hearing.” I look from her to Bernice, who’s smirking. It looks like she’s desperately trying to contain herself; otherwise, she’d be grinning just as wildly as she was before.

“It’s set to occur in an hour,” Imogen says. “I assume that isn’t inconvenient for you.”

“Certainly not.”

-

“There _is_ a way,” Magnus says, having shown up barely a second after I sent a text that Imogen was here. He’s sitting on the foot of my bed. He would look like his usual languid self if it weren’t for the fact that his leg is bouncing up and down.

“Not _that_ ,” I snap. I walk back into my closet and start shifting through shirts. Simon is standing silently in the doorway. I yank a teal shirt that I’ve never worn off the hanger, surprised it doesn’t rip. I toss it at him and he catches it, eyebrows raising at me — but by that time I’m on the other side of the closet.

“What fucking way?” Lily asks for what feels like the fifth time. “Raphael? Are you listening in there?”

I grab a charcoal suit and shove it at Simon as I walk back into my bedroom. “Change,” I snap at him. His eyes are wide as he nods and retreats back into the closet.

“Raphael, this isn’t a fucking fashion show—”

“You want him to go in front of the Clave wearing a fucking t-shirt?” I interrupt.

“ _He’s_ coming?”

“Of course he’s coming.” I say it in a cool tone that I don’t entirely intend.

Her eyes narrow, but she lets the subject drop. “Just _tell_ me what our alternative is.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I try to say it flatly, but something causes my voice to shake; maybe it’s the way Magnus rolls his eyes or the way Lily grimaces.

“Guys—” Simon calls, but immediately gets cut off.

“Why _not_ , Raphael?” Magnus asks. “Just give us a reason.”

“I broke the rules. I threw them all away for this — for _him_ ,” I gesture to Simon, who’s just appeared back in the room. He immediately takes an unsteady step away like he’s just been slapped. I try to remember what compelled me to bring him along, but the reason eludes me. Five minutes ago I was clutching his hand like the weak, pathetic man I’ve become, but now I just feel cold. “I don’t deserve to lead this clan anymore.”

“You’ll be a criminal,” Lily snaps. “ _If_ you can even manage to escape them.”

“I can survive on my own.”

“With _him_ weighing you down?”

I frown. At first I’m angry at her tone — the disapproval, the fact that she clearly thinks he’s deserving of being discarded. Then, immediately, I realize she’s _right_ — I wouldn’t be able to leave without him; I didn’t even _consider_ meeting with Imogen without him next to me. I walk towards him, and he flinches again, but instead I just straighten the collar of his shirt. I make quick work of the jacket buttons he hadn’t bothered with, then smooth the fabric. It’s something I did a couple times when he borrowed my clothes before, but something about the audience makes it feel more possessive and intimate than I entirely intended. His eyes are wide and his mouth has popped open. He puts a hand on my wrist, and when I don’t flinch away, he runs his hand up my arm lightly. “Raphael,” he whispers, my name a soft sigh only for my ears.

I turn back around, seeing that Lily’s face now looks like she could murder Simon joyfully.

“You won’t risk Simon,” Magnus says dryly. I’d almost forgotten he was there, but I look at him to see a roll of his eyes indicating that he doesn’t fully approve.

“You’re the best leader this clan’s had in decades, Raphael,” Lily says quietly but passionately, taking a step towards me. “Since when do you care about a rule when you could stop Bernice and her nomads — heathens, _barbarians_ — from taking control? Think of how hard you — and me and Stan and Elliott and _everyone_ — worked when Camille was in power. We kept each other alive. But if you let them have power? They’re going to take and take from our reserves of blood and money until they run us dry. And then they’re going to leave and we’ll have _nothing_.”

I sigh. “How could you still want me around? I signed you away.”

“You would’ve done the same if any of us had been held hostage. At least… you would’ve thought about it. Right?”

I look back at Simon. He’s taken a few steps back, a couple feet into the closet but still visible. He’s looking shell-shocked. I meet his eyes for just a second until he looks away. There’s a frown on his face that for once doesn’t look at all petulant.

“I don’t know,” I admit. I had always been able to weigh the needs of the many over the needs of the few, up until him. He’s made me devolve into a mess of nothing but moral quandaries and bad decisions.

“I don’t know what plan you and Magnus have,” Lily pleads, “but if you can save us, then _please_ , Raphael.”

-

“I don’t exactly know why the Clave is enforcing this matter,” I say slowly. I’m standing at the front of the largest room in the Hotel; when Camille was in power, I was forced to attend countless parties here. Now I’ve been in power for mere days, and I need to defend myself. Simon is standing near me — but over a few feet and slightly behind me, just outside of my peripheral vision.

I’m alone. Facing a crowd.

Most are the familiar faces of my clan, scared but hopeful, all except Lily, who looks more than a little pissed. Magnus is off to the side, frowning. Then there’s Bernice and her unwashed compatriots, eager smiles on their faces. And then Imogen Herondale, dead center, some Shadowhunter minion on one side and a warlock from her payroll on the other. Her eyes are cold, unflinching. I feel my back straighten at the challenge in her expression. I’m tired and weak and thirsty, but none of that matters.

“Do not take this statement to mean that I concede that the Clave has jurisdiction in this matter, which I do not,” I continue, my voice calmer now, more reasoned. “But I hope we can settle the matter presently.” Imogen inclines her head despite the annoyed look on her face, which I take as acquiescence. “I assume that I am to understand that I’m being placed on trial because there was a contract in place that gave Camille power over the New York Clan, with a caveat in said contract that in the event of her death, that power would fall to Bernice.”

“Yes,” Imogen says, an impatient wave of her hand. “The contract has been deemed enforceable.”

I look at Magnus, who shrugs. I exhale and glance at Simon, who looks just as confused and terrified as he has ever since I woke up. When he cried into my shoulder, I had wondered what relief I would feel if I did the same. And now here we are.

“Camille was an immediate threat to Simon Lewis, the newest fledgling and member of the New York Clan,” I say slowly, pulling my gaze from him and back to Imogen.

“She was his sire. Do you deny that?”

“I bore witness to it,” I say, nodding. I take another deep breath to steady myself. “While the sire bond is one of the most sacred bonds that vampires hold dear, there is one bond that the Shadow World considers even more protected. I had to kill Camille.”

“Had to?” she prompts, tone even more condescending than usual.

I look back at Simon, watching him carefully as I say, “Simon Lewis and I are soulmates.” He gasps and takes a step forward. He seems to rethink it, but I nod, gesturing that he stand next to me. He barely spares a glance at the crowd before looking back at me. “The bond is unbreakable, indisputable, and the highest law of whatever land you claim jurisdiction over, Imogen Herondale.” I reach forward and grip Simon’s arm as I force myself to look back at her. It’s a sea of shocked faces, all except Lily, who looks relieved, and Magnus, who is grinning. I meet Imogen’s eyes again. “I understand that you’ll need us to submit to whatever test your warlock needs to perform to confirm this as true. As such, I agree.”

I look at Simon. “So — so do I,” he says, stumbling a little over the words.

I can’t look away from him as I hear Imogen say, “If this proves correct, it will render your contract unenforceable, Bernice.”

I vaguely hear cheering, sounds of celebration so at odds with the feeling of disgust washing over me. Even Simon’s face has softened, a quiet contentment there that I haven’t seen maybe since we played video games that day so long ago. He looks like the world has righted itself. “Thanks,” he whispers, leaning even closer to me. I turn my head and his lips brush against my cheek. He pulls back, tilting his head, that happy look barely faltering.

I take a careful step away from him and nod, finally breaking our stare. “It was necessary,” I say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I bumped the number of chapters in this fic from 13 to 14, since I'm 99% sure I'm going to add an epilogue. 
> 
> It's my plan to have this fic done by the time season 2 starts! 
> 
> As I'm nearing the end, feel free to send a prompt on [my Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/). I can't promise that I'll write all of them, but I'm planning to relax with a couple one-shots when this is done.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting!


	13. Reticence

_Simon_

“You’re soulmates,” Imogen announces, slamming what looks like a page-long contract onto the table in front of us. I lean forward to look at it, only managing to read the word _Acknowledgement_ typed across the top because Raphael whisks it away and starts to read it.

“We were, um, aware,” I say, sounding stupid even to myself, just because it feels like I should fill the silence — not an uncommon feeling. Raphael gives me a sidelong glance and an amused half-smile that calms me more than any number of words could.

She looks me up and down, and I find myself shrinking back into my seat. I’ve never dated a man but I know enough to assume some people won’t always be pleasant about it — and that look she’s giving me makes it reality in nauseating way. I’d never thought about being with Raphael beyond the desperation of wanting to _be_ with Raphael, but suddenly the memory of the way Alec’s parents reacted when he kissed Magnus makes me cringe and look away. The Hotel is so insulated that I almost forgot there was an outside world that could judge me for my newly-labeled sexuality. I sigh. Raphael reaches out absently, resting his hand on my wrist, but his eyes remain on the paper.

“We aren’t Shadowhunters — your rules don’t apply here,” he says abruptly, glaring up at her. His hand suddenly grips my wrist — a bruising pressure.

My eyes widen and I look between them, not sure what caused the sudden shift of his mood.

“It’s just a contract that says that you consented to the test and agree with the results,” Imogen says impatiently with a roll of her eyes; I wonder if she feels more free to be outwardly rude here, among nothing but Downworlders.

“I’m not referring to the text, Imogen.” He frowns, lets go of my wrist, and grabs a pen before scrawling his signature down. He shoves it at me and it takes me a second too long to follow suit. Before I can even set the paper down, he’s grabbing it from me, slamming it on the desk, and yanking me up off the chair by my upper arm. “Don’t _think_ you can come here and enforce your stupid, antiquated laws _ever again_ ,” he says with absolute authority. He’s leaning forward, fangs out — a thrill of fear goes down my spine, but something about the way his grip tightens on my arm is strangely comforting. “And don’t you dare look at Simon like that again — I don’t give a _fuck_ what you Shadowhunters think about the head of the New York clan having a male soulmate. You have five minutes to leave the premises.”

Then he drags me down the hallway. I’m trying to examine his face and don’t pay attention to where we are until I’m shoved into the room with the gold couches. He slams the door as soon as we’re inside, and somehow my back crashes against the just-closed door. His face is just inches from mine, full of intensity.

For a second I’m convinced he’s going to kiss me, but then he lets me go and takes a step back.

I let out a deep breath. He walks across the room without looking back. I want him to look at me of his own volition, but he doesn’t.

_Are you fucking kidding me right now?_ I can’t help thinking. But I say, “Should we, uh, talk about that?”

“This is why you shouldn’t trust Shadowhunters,” he says, walking as far to the opposite side of the room as physically possible.

“I’ve never seen you act like that before.” I start wandering closer to him, wishing that I was confident enough to think that he won’t run away. He meets my eyes and I freeze. There’s something soft about him now, but I don’t know exactly what changed. “Raphael?” I ask softly.

He walks over, pausing directly in front of me. He’s just inches from my face; he looks just as intense as he was before, but while he looked pissed off then, now he’s wide-eyed and earnest. It’s even more paralyzing. He leans forward and softly presses his lips against my cheek. By the time I can think to react, he’s already several feet past me.

“Can you go confirm with Lily that Imogen Herondale left?” he asks; I can’t see his face, but his voice is back to typical no-nonsense vampire king Raphael.

I exhale, some of the tension leaving my body. “Sure,” I say, spinning around and leaving the room. I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m walking on eggshells around him. I wonder if he’ll ever stop giving me whiplash.

-

After Lily answers my question — yes, Imogen left — she whisks me away to various parts of the hotel. The answer to my question took all of half a second, but it feels like someone is conspiring to keep me occupied. I’m given blood to drink, I’m taken to my room, and even Stan shows up to take me back to the Institute to grab my stuff. So it’s hours before I see Raphael again, or even _hear_ from him. A couple boxes are piled into my old room, but after only a minute or two of sitting on the bed, I hop back up again. It’s nearing the time to sleep, so I tug on an old pair of sweatpants and a _Nausicaä_ shirt before making up my mind to go next door. I walk in without knocking — just because I’m terrified he won’t let me in, and because clinging to normalcy might make it become that way — but he isn’t there.

But even hiding in his empty room seems more welcoming than hiding in mine. So I close the door behind me and call, “Raphael?”

“In here,” comes his voice, so I start walking towards the closet. The closet itself is about the size of my bedroom back home and is a measure of excess, certainly. Dozens of suits and what looks like hundreds of shirts are carefully hung everywhere — color-coded, of course —  and pairs and pairs of shoes line the edges of the floor. It had been completly crammed full of clothes when I saw it yesterday — was that really only yesterday? — but now he seems to be clearing out a section. There’s a haphazard pile of clothes in the center of the room, and as I walk in, he tosses a pair of pants onto the top of the pile.

“What are you doing?” I ask, confused. It doesn’t look like he’s ever gotten rid of a single piece of clothing.

“Is this enough room?” he asks, slamming a drawer closed and looking at me. His face is perfectly smooth, giving nothing away, even as he gestures at the empty space.

“For what?”

“For your clothes. You don’t that have many, right?” His eyes flicker up and down over my outfit, and a corner of his mouth goes down, but I barely even register his disapproval.

My mouth pops open. I look from him to the empty portion of the closet to the discarded clothes. “Um,” I say eloquently, since my brain seems to have stopped working.

He cleared out room in his _closet_ for me.

“You want me to stay here?” I ask. “In your _room_?”

He walks over to me. “You only slept in your room one night when you were here the first time — I just assumed it would end up like this anyway.”

I try to laugh, even though there’s a subtle coolness to his tone that makes my pleasant shock fade a little. That phrasing — _the first time_ — makes my blood run cold but I try not to think of it. “Yeah, that makes sense. And, um, yeah, that’s plenty of space. Like, too much, honestly.”

He half-smiles. “Immortality only causes wardrobe sizes to expand.” He reaches out and touches my shirt, just for a second. “What the hell is that, anyway?”

I laugh. “It’s from a Miyazaki movie.” Before he even responds, I reach forward. I rest my hand on his cheek, trying to read him. He looks at me, mouth just slightly open. For a second I try to stop hesitating — to make the first move for once — but then he takes a careful step back and my hand falls.

“I can help you bring your things over,” he says, stepping around me.

He starts to walk out of the closet, but abruptly I ask, “Do you really want me here?”

He freezes and turns around. For a few seconds, he just stares at me. I wonder what he’s seeing — I wonder what he might be _reading_ all over my face — but there’s no way to tell. There’s _never_ a way to understand him. Then he says, “We’re soulmates, aren’t we?” His voice is sardonic in a way that feels especially cutting, and there’s a smile that either looks bitter or wry on his face. It feels like he slapped me, and I stand there recovering for a minute as he turns around and walks out.

I let out a shuddering breath, finally understanding that this must’ve been how he felt all those times I mentioned we were soulmates.

God, no wonder he hated me.

-

Now it’s always like that.

I don’t think I even understood it then, but I think he’s just been going through the motions of being with me. He’s still as cryptic as ever, but I can feel bitter acceptance radiating off him. Taking what I give him, agreeing to what I ask of him, but nothing else. There’s no evidence of him wanting me, or even him _liking_ me.

The signs of it are everywhere. In the sharp _snap_ of his book closing as soon as I enter the room. The way he’ll take an infinitesimal step back if I walk towards him. The way his body angles away if I get too close. That look in his eyes as he pulls away when I kiss him. The way he hardly meets my eyes anymore, but I catch hard sidelong glances that I try and fail to interpret. Then, the most subtle: the way his hand will brush against my shoulder, as though he’s pretending to be reassuring but it feels like nothing more than perfunctory — something to distract me from the fact that he’s pulling away.

I try not to think it, but the thought always comes back, unimpeded: _Maybe he’s already gone._

It should be easy. Every preconceived notion and every movie I’ve ever seen is telling me that we should be deep into domestic bliss right now. I moved into his room — my clothes in his closet, new video game consoles hooked up to his TV, stacks of DVD’s I keep meaning to organize shoved into a corner. My presence is everywhere, intertwined completely with this things. Maybe it’s childish to think that should be enough.

Because we sleep in the same bed every night, but I vividly remember those two times we’d slept in the same bed before, and I still remember him curled around me, our limbs intertwined, the way he looked so _comfortable_. Now there’s always a perfunctory _good night_ when he snaps off the light before we go to sleep, and then there’s that wide expanse of space between us when I wake up.

Then when I look around the room and see my DNA all over it, it seems like nothing more than artifice.

Every day I think that I couldn’t feel colder, and then every day I prove myself wrong.

-

[To: Clary, 21:42]  
_can I come over?_

[To: Clary, 21:43]  
_I’m bored and convinced Raphael hates me_

[To: Clary, 21:43]  
_as always_

[To: Clary, 21:50]  
_Clary?_

[To: Clary, 22:01]  
_ugh where are you_

[To: Clary, 22:15]  
_fuck it I’m coming over anyway_

I glare down at my long-unanswered text messages and back up at Raj, who has his arms firmly crossed over his chest and has been arguing with me for the last five minutes. Normally I would’ve gone the second I realized Clary wasn’t here — as I suspected anyway by my unanswered text stream — but something about that look of disgust on his face (and my crumbling relationship) is making me more combative than usual. The walk over here helped a little; just leaving the Hotel made me feel less suffocated, but here under a Shadowhunter’s gaze, that feeling rushes back, at least a little.

“Just go,” he sighs.

“Are they, like, saving the world or something?”

“I can’t really give any information to a _vampire—_ ”

“How come you never get to be Batman like them?” I interrupt, just because of his tone when he said _vampire_. I feel a little bit of vindication when Raj flinches. Maybe it’s petty, but he’s really grating on me. It’s easy to forget most Shadowhunters really _are_ like this when I’m safe in the Hotel and the only Shadowhunters I talk to are Clary and sometimes Izzy and Alec. It’s the kind of thing Raphael would’ve warned me about, probably, if our conversation lately have been anything other than perfunctory.

Everything feels _perfunctory_ now — the word crashes into my brain over and over and over again — and I never realized how lonely that would feel.

( _I’m going to the Institute_ , I said about an hour ago. He nodded and didn’t glance up from his desk, but asked, _Will you be back before sunrise?_ I said yes. He met my eyes then, just for a second — cool, blank, that kind of expression that keeps knocking the wind out of me for a reason I don’t fully understand. I gave a quiet goodbye and left.)

“Seriously, just go,” Raj repeats.

I’m about to turn around and leave when Jocelyn appears over his shoulder. I can’t help but smile at her, chuckling a little when Raj immediately whips around to look at her. “Are you here for Clary?” she asks.

“Trying and failing to be,” I say. “But I guess I’ll come back at a better time.”

“You could always stay,” she says, while Raj gives a frustrated but quiet groan.

“Uh, no, that’s fine.”

Her eyes are far too intense on mine; I vaguely wonder what she’s seeing on my face, but then I realize that I probably don’t want to know. I break our eye contact and add quietly, “Well, I guess I’ll go then.”

She nods and turns around to leave. I watch her once her back is safely turned around, but something about her long red hair makes something in me snap. “Valentine is your soulmate, right?” I call out abruptly.

She turns around quickly and Raj’s eyes go wide. I’m embarrassed a split-second too late, but she doesn’t look entirely offended. Soon an understanding look crosses over her. “Let’s talk somewhere else,” she says, walking back over to me. Once she’s close enough, she pats my shoulder which turns into her tugging me into another room. Suddenly I’m seated in a comfortable chair and she’s sitting down across from me, eyes contemplative. “Is this about Raphael?” she asks.

Something about hearing his name coming out of her mouth almost unravels me. She’s like a mother to me, but the last time I really talked to her, I was a human being secretly in love with her daughter — or maybe not so secretly, God I hope she didn’t know. And what am I now? A shitty vampire dating a vampire king. My whole world changed, but she’s still looking at me with those familiar eyes and something about it almost tricks me into thinking this could be normal. I’m almost comfortable for a second.

But then I remember how I’ll have to go back to the Hotel and he’ll look at me with those cold eyes and my stomach will tighten and this buzzing in my head won’t subside. I’m not the Simon Lewis that Jocelyn Fray used to know.

“I don’t want to talk about Raphael,” I finally say, a little too bitterly.

I look away as she stares even harder. Then she says, “Yes, Valentine is my soulmate. Technically.”

“Technically,” I repeat hollowly. “Because you love Luke — because you _chose_ Luke?”

“Yes.” Her tone says that it’s the most natural thing in the world — like it’s the easiest question I could’ve asked. She grips her left arm, a gesture that I’m becoming more and more familiar with.

When I look up at her, her face gives nothing away. She seems to be analyzing my every move. This is a version of Jocelyn maybe I’ve never seen before — she doesn’t seem as warm and soft like this. It’s always been hard to believe the things Clary has said that her mother did, but I can feel it, looking at her looking at me. She looks like she can see straight through me.

“Was it hard?” I ask, trying to make my own expression just as cryptic, but I know that there’s no way I’ll succeed. “I mean, was it hard to choose someone who wasn’t your soulmate?”

“Simon, are you _sure_ you don’t want to talk about Raphael?”

“ _Yes._ ” I bury my face in my hands, not even wanting to look at her anymore. I’m beginning to regret this whole conversation. I should’ve just left and tried to find a midnight movie.

“It was hard to let go of fate,” she says quietly, but I still don’t look up. “Especially when he was clinging on so hard. It was hard because everyone tells you that soulmates are the only thing that matters. We hear it again and again, all through our lives. But I love Luke, and Val changed. It took a long time but it wasn’t a _difficult_ decision. It was the right choice.”

“Sometimes even soulmates don’t work out,” I say, finally looking up at her. I think my face is successfully blank this time.  

“Nothing is a guarantee. People are unpredictable, even if fate is on your side.” She says it slowly, like she isn’t sure she should say it.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” I realize I’m standing even though I have no memory of getting up. “Well, thanks, Jocelyn. We really should, um, catch up sometime—”

“Simon,” she interrupts, standing too, “this doesn’t mean that Raphael—”

“Yeah, I know. This was just your experience, I know.” I sound stupid and robotic even to myself, but I try not to think too hard as I turn around to leave. But before I can get more than a couple feet away, I feel her arms wrap around me. Suddenly she’s in front of me, hugging me tightly. The feeling is so familiar that I find myself melting into it. I feel like the old Simon Lewis, especially when I start to tear up. I force myself not to cry, knowing it will just prolong this moment, and I’m sure I can’t handle that.

“It’ll be fine, Simon. It really will,” she says.

There’s something nice about hearing the words said out loud like that — with confidence that makes me almost believe it for a split second. After all, she’s been through a lot worse than me. But I think about those looks Raphael has been giving me and I start to shiver.

Reality creeps over me and I pull away from her. I think I know what I have to do, and it makes me feel sick. “Thanks, Jocelyn,” I say.

Then I rush out of the Institute. 

* * *

 

_Raphael_

He gets back an hour before dawn. He looks a little ragged and tired, but I still barely spare him a glance as he walks past me.  “Might want to go to sleep early,” I suggest absent-mindedly, heading towards Lily’s office. I’ve got a letter from the head of the Austin clan — a _letter_ , as though she’s still stuck in the year of her birth, which I’ve heard is a full three hundred years ago — about a rogue werewolf population, so I’m not particularly paying attention.

Then suddenly he has my arm. I stop dead, watching as the letter flutters to the ground. We meet each other’s eyes. His gaze is steady but firm. I’ve never seen the set of his face look like that — sad but determined. “Can we talk?” he asks, his hand sliding off my arm. He bends down to pick up the paper and extends it to me.

“Sure.” I take the letter back and then lead the way back to my — our — bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and I toss the letter on the desk in the corner. By the time I turn around, that cool steadiness is completely gone from him — he’s staring at me with wide eyes, biting his lip.

I sigh, instantly frustrated because I don’t know if I should be preparing myself for a battle or not. Simon has seemed quietly unhappy lately, which is understandable because I can’t seem to let go of my anger towards him. Every time I want to give in and be comfortable with him — kiss him back, wrap my arms around him, curl up against him when we’re sleeping — I remember that I almost gave up my whole world for him. I’m living on borrowed time — time I don’t even deserve — because of the small loophole of being soulmates. It was a coward’s solution, and I’ve become a selfish creature. I wanted my clan and I wanted him.

I don’t deserve to be happy.

I’m not _trying_ to punish him for it, but something about it makes me hate him.

I’ve lived over eighty years, so maybe if I had loved and lost at a rate that seems normal for other people, I’d be equipped to handle him. I’d know what to do, with him standing in front of me with eyes that don’t seem to be looking at anything. But I have nothing. I have no training to know what to do, so all I can do is stand here.

I might be decades older than him, but nothing prepared me for this. For _him_. For the way he crashed into my world and changed it.

“What’s this about, Simon?” I finally say.

“It’s about us.”

“Us?” I frown. “Can this wait?”

“Why are we together?” he asks sharply, before I can even start turning away.

I blink. _We’re soulmates, aren’t we?_ The response is almost torn out of me. I don’t _want_ to punish him — I don’t want to let him know how I felt when he threw that line at me. It’s childish, but something about it has become a reflex.

Instead, I just sigh his name. There’s a look of betrayal in his eyes when that’s all I say.

“Is there a _reason?_ ” he asks.

“I thought you wanted to be.” The words come out a little sharper than I wanted to, and every pinprick lands, judging by how he flinches.

He nods slowly, already looking beaten down and weary. “I just — I don’t want you to be with me because you feel like you _have_ to be.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, finally fully confused.

“I get it, alright? I finally get it. I think you’ve been trying to say it to me since we first met, but it’s taken me this long.… You’re Jocelyn and I’m Valentine—”

“Quite an analogy—” I interrupt, barely able to comprehend what he’s saying. He was speaking so calmly before — it almost sounded rehearsed — but now he’s talking so fast that his words run together.

“We’re soulmates, but we just aren’t meant to be,” he interrupts right back, voice cracking. “Maybe it’s written in the stars, but that doesn’t make it _right_. This isn’t making you happy — I can’t make you happy. And I — well, I really do understand. I mean, I _suck_ and you could do better and you don’t want to be with me. You’ll find your _Luke_ — or maybe you’ll just choose no one — and you’ll be happy and that’s fine. Really, seriously, Raphael, it’s _fine_. No one says you have to want me.” He blinks and looks at the ceiling, on the verge of tears.

“Simon,” I sigh.

“I love you,” he says. “Oh, fuck — _fuck_ — I wasn’t gonna say that.” He clasps a hand over his forehead before looking at me again. “I don’t want you to think that I’m saying that as some last-ditch effort, some kind of manipulation or something. I just really fucking wanted to say it — even if it’s just once — because I never thought you’d believe it before. But I really do love you, Raphael. I know that won’t change your mind or anything. I know. I really do know. But, God, I’m still just an idiot. I just wanted you to know, too.”

Then he finally stops talking.

His _I love you_ echoes in my mind, fucking up my brain and making me dazed in a way I don’t like.

He seems a little unsteady on his feet. There are real tears in his eyes, and one falls down his cheek. If I were a softer man — a better man — that would be my breaking point. But there’s unmet expectation on his face, and I realize that he’s waiting for some equally pained declaration from me. For a second I consider it, but then I just find myself sighing again.

There’s nothing I could say that would both be true and reassure him of anything. He makes me a weak, broken man, and I can’t be strong enough to be who he needs me to be.

His brown eyes are steady on mine again, and then he looks calm. I watch as his whole demeanor transforms, until suddenly he’s standing tall and the tears are gone from his eyes. He’s accepted it, and somehow that breaks me even more.

He gives me one final nod and a small smile.

Then he walks out.

“Fuck,” I say when the door closes. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

-

“I get why you did it,” Lily says, her tone solemn. I stare at her hard, even as she flits back and forth around the office. _I can do your work for you today_ , she had said an hour ago, forcing me into a nearby recliner. Five minutes later, she shoved a book and a glass of blood in my hand. Then she unceremoniously took a stack of papers to her own office, only coming back in five minutes ago with everything completed. Maybe she thinks I’ve had time to unwind, but instead I’ve just sat here, sipping at the blood until it was all gone.

She meets my eyes now, and I can barely stand the scrutiny on her face. If she’s looking for a crack in my façade, she’ll find a million of them.

“Do you?” I ask slowly. I’m not sure why Lily thinks that filing is of utmost importance — since we have perfectly organized electronic copies of all our records. I guess it’s too much to ask centuries-old vampires to trust computers, but it’s still bordering on ridiculous.

I think she just wants to talk, and I don’t blame her for that. I haven’t spoken to anyone since Simon left, but everyone seems to know that he left seemingly for good. Lily is the only one brave enough to bring it up. “Look, I’m not going to pretend that I _loved_ Simon. He put you in a lot of pain and he really endangered the Clan. I’m sure he told you about what I said to him—”

“What?” I interrupt. “What did you say?” I try to make my voice sound merely curious instead of biting.

She looks a little flustered by that, as though she shouldn’t have brought it up. “Just that he fucked us over.”

“What else?” I say.

“That he doesn’t deserve you.” She straightens up, looking unashamed. “It’s still true.” She says it with a little laugh and a shrug, but there’s a sharpness to her eyes as she watches me.

It’s stupid to think of it like that — in terms of _deserving_ someone, putting everything on a quantitative basis. As though these thinks can be measured and comprehended like the market value of the Hotel’s stock portfolio. As though my world wasn’t _better_ when he was here — in an undefinable, immeasurable way.

Of course, that’s the exact moment that I was thinking in those terms just hours ago. I didn’t deserve happiness, didn’t deserve the world, didn’t deserve _him_. I was willing to let him slip through my fingers just because of some silly, arbitrary definitions.

Maybe I just didn’t want to love him.

“That’s idiotic,” I say, as much to her as I’m saying it to myself.

Her eyebrows just upwards. She’s always had the Clan’s best interests at heart — and she still does — so I doubt I’ve say those words to her before.

“He’s not gone forever,” I finally tell her firmly, standing up. Maybe I’m saying it out loud to convince myself, too. She looks at me, eyes widening. “Don’t worry, Lily, I’ll work harder to keep this Clan safe — especially after everything he and I did — but I’m not giving him up.”

“He was worth it?” she asks slowly, and it comes across like a genuine question, not a sarcastic comment that I might’ve expected.

“Yes.”

She sighs and shakes her head, but when a soft smile comes over her face, she looks resigned and maybe a little indulgent. “Then you shouldn’t have let him go.” She grabs my shoulder and shoves me towards the door. “Go after him, you moron.”

In the doorway, I turn around and look at her. “Thanks,” I say quietly.

“You’ve been with us for a long time, and we trust you. We just want you to be happy, Raphael.”

-

“Simon left,” is the first thing Magnus says to me. I didn’t even know he was there — only Magnus Bane would decide that it’s a socially acceptable thing to do, just portaling into someone’s bedroom. But there he is, standing in the doorway of my closet, leaning against the frame with nonchalance that almost tricks me into not being surprised. He and Camille really must have been an insufferable couple.

“Thanks for the update.” I tug on a clean button-down — slate grey, ironed so all the edges are careful points — and meet his eyes. I have all kinds of superiority on him today, so I just stare him down, willing him to be his typical all-knowing self.

“Well, _I_ just heard.” When I don’t do anything other than go to the other side of the closet, he continues, “Look, darling, I know that your fledgling might not be the easiest to get along with — I’ve never heard anyone say so little using so many words — but this kind of thing doesn’t come along every day. He’s been separated from you for all of one day and I hear he’s already asking about other clans.”

I freeze for a split-second, feeling a slap in the face at that. I quickly tell myself that I’ll be fixing the problem soon, trying to shake off the nauseated feeling coming over me at the mere _thought_ of him at another clan. “No Downworlder would want to stay at the Institute long-term,” I say with forced calm. I’m looking through my multiple near-identical black coats, trying to find the one I’m looking for. The action calms me a little.

“Raphael,” he sighs.

I roll my eyes as I shrug into the correct jacket. “I have it covered,” I say flatly.

“And what exactly does that entail?” he asks, half-smiling. I know he came here with probably multiple speeches planned about the advantages of having a soulmate — having known his for all of a month, perhaps he considers himself an expert — but Magnus is, above all, here for the gossip. And he looks to be eagerly awaiting anything I might be about to tell him.

“He _is_ my fledgling, after all.” I say it more quietly than I intended, feeling a bit embarrassed despite all my confidence when Magnus walked in.

“Damn,” he says with a laugh. His grin is wide and a little infectious. “What the fuck changed your mind?”

I finally stop pretending to be busy and stand in front of him. He’s the only one I would say this to, but even with him, I still sigh before I admit, “I wanted him back the second he walked out the door.”

-

“May I speak with Simon?” I ask with exaggerated politeness. Clary Fairchild glares up at me, and suddenly it occurs to me that the last time I spoke to her was that conversation what feels like an eternity ago, when she yelled at me and I sent her out of the room nearly in tears. At the time it had been exhilarating, but I feel the weight of her glare now. I don’t back down.

“No,” she says flatly, pointing back at the door of the Institute I’d just walked through. Behind her, several other Shadowhunters are staring at me. I only recognize Alec Lightwood, who’s looking at me with nothing more than passive interest. Maybe he would be the most tolerable of them, if I ever got to know him.

“I could’ve just texted him,” I tell her with a sigh. “If you want me to walk back outside and do so and then walk back inside when he texts me back, I can do that.” I raise my eyebrows at her.

She frowns. “Fine,” she snaps. She turns around as if to leave, but then she whips back around. “Just for the record, I was _right_.” She smirks. “I knew you’d want him eventually.” I almost groan as she bounces away. A second later, Izzy slides up and leans against a nearby wall — I wonder if Clary asked her to watch me. I sigh again and pretend to be preoccupied, but it’s difficult when a least six different Shadowhunters are looking me with expressions ranging from passivity — Alec, of course — to absolute loathing.

I only wait for a few minutes until Simon walks into the room. His eyes are wide but guarded, and I give a sigh of relief, just seeing him. He’s just wearing jeans and a black hoodie I don’t recognize. Clary isn’t far behind, but I can’t focus on anything but him. He stops several feet away from me, so I close the distance between us. I feel a tightness in my chest at how frozen he looks.

That’s when I know. That’s when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want him, that I need him, that I’ve finally forgiven him for any real or arbitrary grudges I’ve been holding against him. His eyes are widening in just a way that causes any lingering resentment to melt away, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times in a way that’s far more endearing than it should be.

I really am fucked. But I don’t mind anymore.

“Why are you here?” he whispers finally, breaking our eye contact. “Raphael, I can’t—”

“Will you go out with me?” I ask. I hear a few snickers and one loud giggle, presumably from Isabelle, but I can’t look away from him.

His brown eyes go wide as he looks at me. “ _What?_ ” he asks.

I smile. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

His mouth opens and closes again. Striking Simon speechless really is satisfying. Finally, he just nods. I stare at him a minute too long, trying to remember how I ever found that dark hair and those brown eyes at all unappealing.

I put both my hands on his neck and lean forward. He stays completely still as I press my lips to his cheek. “I’ll pick you up at midnight tomorrow,” I whisper into his ear, not wanting anyone else to hear. I feel his hands go to my waist, and when I pull back, he holds me still for a second. I stare at him, unable to say a word, and I’m convinced he’s going to lean forward and kiss me. His lips part and he seems to hover, moving almost imperceptibly back and forth. My nails dig into his skin, but I make sure it isn’t enough to hurt. He lets go of me, and I lean forward and ghost my lips against his. When I pull back, he exhales and opens his eyes.

“See you then,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady but failing.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

I can vaguely hear more laughing and maybe some comments, but I can’t focus on anything other than that utterly dazed look on his face. It’s probably a perfect mirror of my own. We stare at each other for another second before I turn to leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my best friend, beta, and podcast co-host Hannah <3
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me this long! :) Next chapter will be the last, and 99.9% sure I'll post before season two starts.


	14. Inscription

_Simon_

I’m still having trouble believing that we ended up here.

I can feel his gaze on me, but I just tighten my grip on the leather steering wheel. When he pulled up to the Institute driving _this_ car — a fucking _Tesla,_ something I could’ve never even envisioned in my wildest dreams — I nearly died a second time. For an instant, I felt like begging off. Something about his perfect form sliding out of the shiny red car was already enough to give me all kinds of thoughts that would’ve had me questioning my sexuality if that pansexual answer weren’t already locked and loaded. It didn’t help my mental state when he extended the keys, when his silky voice said, _It’s yours_ , and when I finally met his eyes and he was staring at me with a serene and pleasant expression on his face. I’m used to seeing at least a shadow of hatred, but he just chuckled and forced the keys into my hands, his touch lingering on me. Every instant of his skin on mine felt like it was frozen in some sort of perfect, dreamlike suspended animation until his cool hand finally slid away from mine, leaving only a set of car keys behind. _Come on, you can’t drive that van all the time,_ he said, but something in his smile faltered. It occurred to me then that maybe he was insecure, too, and I just grinned. _Thanks_ , I said, the word as completely inadequate as always.

That was an hour ago. Ever since then, we’ve just been driving. I can’t do more than _glance_ at him in split-second intervals. He won’t tell me where we’re going, instead choosing to give me turn-by-turn instructions. I’ve mentioned something about it once or twice, but he just gives me a quiet smile. No matter how many times I’ve seen his smile, it’s still completely and embarrassingly disarming. So I give up the fight and keep driving, locking my eyes on the road.

Then I finally look at him — _really_ look. His gaze slides over to me, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining that smirk or not. The complete darkness of the car isn’t as debilitating as a vampire, but it doesn’t exactly help. I want to reach out and grab his hand, but — like the last million or so times I’ve had that urge over the duration of the car ride — I force myself not to. Not because I think he’ll pull away — for once, I’m convinced that he’d let me — but because I don’t think my brain can handle _all_ of this at once. I’m pretty sure I’m already suffering from some kind of overstimulation. I feel like I just drank ten cups of coffee, or maybe like I finally got bitten by a radioactive spider — but without any of the cool side-effects.

(Clary thinks Andrew Garfield was a better Spider-Man than Tobey Maguire, can you fucking believe that?)

I glance back at the road before looking at Raphael again. It felt like a dream, leaving those city lights behind. Now the city is long gone from my rearview mirror, but he looks just as perfectly comfortable as always. I look away from him, turning back to the road. “How much longer?” I ask, finally unable to resist, even though it must make me sound like an impatient child.

He just chuckles, and it’s almost irresistible, wanting to look at him again. That carefully slicked-back hair, that navy suit, the way he’s sitting so casually — it looks like he’s filming a commercial for the car, and fuck would he have everyone wanting to buy it.

I stare straight ahead at the road again, because just the sight of him in my peripheral vision is already enough of a safety hazard.

-

“Is this one of those movies where you’re taking me out into a secluded place to murder me? Because, uh, those guys always get caught.”

He laughs a little — I’m still amazed by what a light, warm sound it is. It alleviates some of my lingering doubt better than anything has since the first bout of confidence I got from the sight of his half-smile when he pulled up to the Institute. “I think I could get away with it,” he says, getting out of the car and shutting the door behind him.

I lean over to the passenger side, because the window is still all the way down. “What makes you think so?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Haven’t you already been declared legally dead?” He leans back into the window, his arms resting against the frame. Once again I’m struck by how utterly casual he looks. It makes me lose my train of thought for a second. I lean a little closer, and I’m half-tempted to crawl across the seat to even _attempt_ to kiss him.

We pulled up into a dark garage attached to a dark house out in the middle of fucking nowhere. I _think_ we’re still in the state of New York, but there’s absolutely no way to know for sure — especially since I’m convinced I’m out of cell phone range, though I haven’t actually checked. I think there was another house about two miles back down the country road, but that doesn’t make me feel better. Especially since _this_ house required us to go down such a long, winding driveway that I’m almost positive no one would be able to see it from the road anyway.

It’s not that I feel unsafe with Raphael — quite the opposite — but I’ve seen _a lot_ of horror movies.

“But, really, where are we?” I ask, watching as he straightens up and walks to my side of the car. He opens my door and holds out a hand to me. It’s an invitation I can’t refuse, and I reach out and grab his hand. Suddenly he’s yanking me out of the car with another chuckle, and I nearly collapse into him. My free hand goes to his hip as I try to steady myself, unconsciously gripping the fabric of his jacket. I meet his eyes, but he doesn’t look at all fazed. There might be a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there a second ago, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Meanwhile, I feel like a fucking magnet, unable to even look away from him, and it’s taking all of my willpower to not pull him even closer.

“We’re at a house that the New York Clan has owned for about ten years,” he finally explains. “We have several properties within a few hours of the city — as you can imagine, we need houses built a particular way to be _safe_ for us. Plus it’s an excellent investment — vampires from all over will pay top dollar to rent them. This particular one was built by a nomadic couple.” He extricates himself and pulls me through a door. Suddenly I’m surrounded by hardwood floors, walls of windows, and sleek modern furniture. Raphael pushes a button on the wall and panes slip over the windows, completely blocking the outside world. He pushes the button again and everything opens back up. “It’s perfectly equipped for vampires, but they couldn’t deal with the low human population — it was too hard to feed, and they wanted to sell.”

He lets go of my hand with a quiet, “Stay here,” and walks back out to the garage, returning just a second later with two duffel bags slung over his shoulder. By that time, I’m already on the teal couch. He drops a bag by my feet, then sits down next to me. “I thought we could stay here for a few days,” he says, meeting my eyes with some kind of defiance that I don’t quite understand. “If you want. It’s up to you.”

“You’re going to leave the Clan for a _few days?”_ I ask, shocked and more than a little flattered. Of course, the thought of staying somewhere overnight — if that word can still apply to the nocturnal — occurred to somewhere about an hour into our journey, but _days?_ That was something entirely different.

Maybe I _do_ understand that look on his face: challenging the whole world to care if we hole up here, shirking our responsibilities for something as simple as spending time together.

He nods slowly, expression fading into an unsure look that I’ve certainly never seen on him before. “If you want,” he repeats.

“God, of course,” I say — my voice choking a little on saying God, but I get through it. Then I finally let myself lean forward to kiss him. The building tension from every single one of the million times I’ve decided against kissing him tonight melts instantly. He meets me with fervor that I don’t expect. If there had been any doubt that he was still just tolerating me — and how could I _not_ have that thought, when he’s so perfect and _Raphael_ , and I’m just _me_ — all those thoughts would have dissipated at that exact moment. Because suddenly he’s on my lap, hands on either side of my face, tongue against mine. I work my hands under his shirt, trailing them around to his back. I can feel him shivering. I never knew how it would feel to have the weight of him on top of me, but in that moment, I know that it’s _perfect_.

He pulls back abruptly, but I can’t help kissing his collarbone a couple times. I feel his fingers in my hair, and I finally look up at him. He meets my eyes and leans his forehead against mine. “Raphael,” I sigh. He looks more cool and collected than I would’ve expected by that kiss. I guess maybe I’m always going to be the only one who’s undone. “Is this really happening?” It sounds silly and childish, saying it out loud, but the look on his face says that maybe he’s having trouble believing it, too.

His fingers trail over the buttons on my jacket, and my dead heart would be pounding, just expecting him to pop each one open. Instead he just grabs at the collar. “Whose suit is this?” he asks, voice a little rough in a way that turns me on impossibly more.

“Uh,” I say, taking a fully five seconds to comprehend his simple question. “Clary and Izzy helped me pick it out. We bought it yesterday.” It’s simple black — _elegant_ , Izzy said with a grin, and _perfect, very Raphael_ , Clary added — and the price tag was worth the way Raphael’s gaze is raking over me. “Do you, um, like it?”

He smirks. “Yes… but I prefer when you wear my clothes,” he says quietly, leaning in again. As if that statement weren’t already dropping a bomb, I then feel his fangs dragging along the bare skin of my neck. I wonder if he’s going to break my skin, knowing somehow that it would be nothing but pleasurable, but he doesn’t. I can feel the tight muscle of his body through our clothes. I find myself shuddering with the _need_ for him, but before it can be too much, he gets off my lap.

“Let’s go outside,” he says, his voice low and his eyes piercing. I’m half-tempted to see what he would do if I tried to pull him back, but instead I follow him out.

-

“I thought maybe it’s been a while since you’ve seen the stars,” Raphael says, curled up on the sofa on the back patio. We’re shoulder to shoulder. His navy jacket is carefully slung over a nearby chair, so he looks more casual than he usually does. It should probably calm me down — he’s giving me _every sign_ that this is real.

However, I feel like a fucking live wire. I’m just trying to keep as still as possible, but he puts his feet up on the couch cushion next to me, and I feel him lean more heavily against me. I glance at him, but he’s just staring up at the sky, looking more serene than I’ve seen him in what feels like ages.

So I take a deep breath and follow his gaze. My particular brand of nerdiness never reached the galaxies — unless those galaxies were fictional, obviously — but he’s right. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen the sky like this, not obscured by any city lights. I sink down a little further into the sofa and sigh. There really is something comforting about it. I’ve never understood it before, but the feeling of being miniscule makes some of my lingering tension and questions easier to shelve. Especially with him pressed against me.

“Thanks,” I say softly. Then, later: “What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.”

There’s another long pause. I listen to his even breathing and occasionally sneak a glance at him — but his expression isn’t giving anything away. It almost tricks me into thinking this is normal.

“You know,” I say, a little painfully, overly aware of how wonderful and pleasant and dreamlike all of this has been, “we still need to talk about some stuff.”

“I know,” he says. Slowly he stretches. There’s something catlike about it — his legs first, his back, then his arms. There’s faint pink on the horizon, a sight that’s half beautiful and half nerve-wracking. He stands in front of me and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “Let’s go inside, then, and talk.”

I nod and follow him inside, hoping against hope that somehow this isn’t all some kind of weird fever dream I’m having at the Institute — because, honestly, that seems a little more believable.

* * *

_Raphael_

Was it naïve of me to think that we would never be together?

It’s hard to tell now.

Because I look at him and it feels like a choice. A real _choice._ It’s a luxury I wouldn’t have expected to feel. Every time I touch him, smile at him, accept him, I no longer have that crippling sense of  being dragged along by fate. Instead every move is a conscious choice, and I’ve come to accept that he’s the same.

He’s sitting down on a chair across from me. This house is like a sanctuary, and I know that tomorrow there will be discussions about the Hotel and the wifi password and a million other things that people have to deal with on a regular basis. But right now the whole world consists of just me and him. His eyes are unflinching on mine — no challenge or anger in his gaze, just questions.

“Raphael—” he says finally, the word sounding like it was strangled out of him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’ve had very little practice apologizing, but I know that Simon certainly deserves one. His eyebrows raise just a fraction of an inch, and suddenly I realize that he must be working very hard to compose his expression. So I continue, “I ended up punishing you even after I forgave you, because… well, maybe I’m just an immature idiot, too. And because I just wanted to punish myself. I really do want to be with you, Simon. I’m trying to show you that — with all of this. I can’t promise that I’ll always be as warm and open as you might like, but I’m _choosing_ you. Today, tomorrow, every day.”

His expression seems to have slowly melted — his eyes are back to being wide, and he’s leaning forward in his chair.

“I love you,” I add. “I never stopped.” I shrug not because it isn’t worth mentioning, but because it feels so obvious, _barely_ worth mentioning.

Of _course_ I love him.

But when I say it, he blinks and flinches back a couple inches. His mouth pops open, just slightly — a disarmed look, and there’s something charming about it. He’s always been far too charming for all my defenses; I guess I can admit that now. My confession seems to hang in the arm for nearly a full silent minute.

“I always thought I would be fine living out the rest of eternity alone, but I  don’t want to live another day of forever without you,” I tell him softly.

“Raphael,” he says again, the word holding some sort of awestruck wonder. I can barely process the sound of my name like that — soft and warm and full of familiarity and reciprocated love. When he first told me he loved me, I always believed him, but it sounds so different to hear evidence of it _aloud_ like that. I guess maybe that’s why he’s looking at me like that, with those wide eyes and a smile slowly spreading across his face.

Then suddenly he’s lurching out of his chair and over where I’m sitting on the couch. He stops in front of me and sits down next to me. Suddenly I’m wrapped in his arms, inhaling the scent of his hair. I’m engulfed in him.

His hands on my back make me shiver, and it isn’t helped at all when he lightly kisses my neck. I pull away from him, just a few inches, and he’s grinning. “I’m sorry, too,” he says then.

I shake my head, not wanting that from him — not needing it. “We’re here now,” I say quietly, because that’s all that needs to be said. We both fucked up, but we ended up here, and _here_ feels right.

Then he’s kissing me. There’s no hesitation on his part anymore, but I like it better that way. I find myself trying to get even closer as I kiss him back. His lips are desperate on mine, and I’m sure I’m nearly as desperate to kiss him back. One of his hands threads through my hair, but the other grabs at my thigh, trying to hitch me even closer to him. The feeling of his tongue is almost overwhelming, but I let him pull me closer. Somehow we’ve practically become horizontal, with him nearly flat on his back and I’m halfway on top of him. I pull back. His eyes open slowly, looking hazy with lust. I can feel the beginnings of his erection where I’m pressed against him.

I reach down and undo the first button of his shirt. His jacket was discarded sometime during the last hour or two of being here. His eyes widen as the button pops open. I do it again and again to each button, keeping my eyes locked on his. Every further inch of his chest that’s exposed drives me a little more wild. When all the buttons are undone, I realize that I’ve never seen him shirtless, and I certainly wouldn’t have expected how taut and athletic he’d look under his clothes. I give a ragged sigh, just taking in the sight of him. His hands grip my hips, and I know he needs me to make the first move — to push us farther down this road, crossing lines we’ve never crossed before.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve had sex, but something about the sight of him — lying there with his shirt half-off, lips red from kissing me, hair even more messier than ever against the pillow — that makes me realize I’ve never wanted _anyone_ quite like this before. I’ve never wanted anyone quite this _much_.

I lean down to kiss him again, more softly this time.

Then I get off him gently, a little amused by the way his eyes follow my every move. He’s certainly never been this quiet before. “Come on,” I say with a small laugh. I reach out and grab his hand, yanking him up. Then I run my hands over his chest, up to his shoulders, then down his arms — pushing his shirt off as I go. I watch as it hits the floor; there’s something almost mesmerizing about it, and it takes me a second to recover, just looking at the pile of white fabric lying there. I finally look at him — it seems silly and stupid and maybe a feeling that I should’ve had about someone at some point over the course of my immortal life, but there really is something _perfect_ about him. I almost laugh at myself, thinking about how I once found his appearance to be pedestrian.

And now I can’t even look away.

But I can’t even help but reach and pull him to me, kissing him again. His hands are suddenly on my clothes, untucking my shirt roughly. His lips are on my neck, but a few seconds later, he stops.

“Say something,” I say softly.

He pulls away, desperation apparent in every one of his features — his lustful eyes, his mouth slightly open, his tousled hair. “You really _want_ this?” he asks finally, one of his hands resting on my face. There’s something oddly intimate about it, something so loving it’s still a little unfamiliar.

I see that look of concern in his eyes and just grin. “God, yes,” I say, taking his other hand and practically drag him in the direction of the bedroom. He laughs — a sound that I’ve missed. Every moment seems to take us a step closer to normalcy.

But we’ve never done _this_ before.

He laughs and his hand is tight around mine. A thrill of anticipation goes up my spine. I sneak a glance at him, seeing a smile on his face.

Once we’re in the room, his eyes sweep over the perfectly-made king-size bed before landing on me again. When he kisses me, it’s slower this time. His hands trail from my hips up my chest to the top button of my shirt with tantalizing slowness, leaving my skin feeling like it’s burning. It’s tempting to pull him closer, to feel the long lines of his bare skin against me, but I can feel the way his hands are shaking and fumbling against my shirt. I laugh against his lips and pull back.

I brace my hands against him and urge him back. “Did I, uh, do something?” he asks, not paying attention to where he is until the backs of his legs hit the bed. He collapses, a shocked expression on his face. I laugh again.

He only managed to undo my top button, and I make quick work of the rest of them. I didn’t think much of it until I meet his heavy-lidded eyes. He leans back on the bed, and I can’t help but notice the bulge in his pants. I try not to think too hard as I pull off my shirt. I try not to notice the way his eyes seem to be taking in every inch of me, even though he’s seen me shirtless several times before. It’s far from unpleasant, that look in his eyes — quite the opposite, actually. But I have to remind myself, feeling silly, that _I’m_ the more experienced of the two of us. So I toss off my belt, expecting to take off my pants just as quickly.

That’s when I hear it, a quiet, “ _Shit_.” I didn’t realize he was close enough to grab me, but suddenly he’s got an iron grip on my wrist and yanks me to him. I catch myself before I can fall on top of him. His hands are all over my chest before he reaches down and unbuttons my pants. I freeze, wondering why he’s no longer fumbling and meanwhile I can’t even form a coherent thought.

“You’re _gorgeous_.”

Something about that — how it should sound so trite, but there’s sincerity all over him — helps me relax. I lean down and kiss my words on his arm — _please stop talking —_ and reply, “You aren’t so bad yourself.”

His chuckle in my ear is quiet, his hands run over my bare back, and his lips trail over my neck. “I love you,” he whispers. There’s still something so new about hearing those words from him that I can’t help but feel that same jolt of excitement. I pull myself off of him, meeting his eyes.

I stand up just long enough to finish discarding my pants, then I lean forward and do the same to him. I pull them off him before crawling on top of him again. He’s kissing me hard, all the more desperate than he had been.

-

It’s all so overwhelming. I’ve had sex before but it’s never been _Simon_. Every feeling of his hands against me is _Simon_ , the scent is distinctly him, the sound of that voice — I haven’t known it for very long in the grand scheme of things, but it’s become familiar, comforting, an anchor tying me to the world when I feel his fingers _inside_ me. The intense push and pull of him, and his lips on my cock.

I forget everyone else — the whole world ceases to exist, and it’s just us.

I’ve certainly always prided myself on my intelligence, but I don’t have enough room in my mind to worry about the sounds I’m making. He pulls back and he’s panting despite the fact that he doesn’t need to breathe. He looks up at me, apparently searching my eyes for some indication that I might be hesitating, but every moan that I can’t help but let out is just telling him _more_.

His fingers are still in me, feeling all the more intense because of the heaviness of his gaze. I smell his blood and I realize that my nails sank into his back. My delirious pleasure, scratched into in four perfect little rows on his back.

“Now,” I groan out, because he hits that _spot_ again, and I don’t want to come without him inside me. He crawls over me, just as I expected him to. He leans down to kiss me, and I take the brief moment of coherency to catch him offguard, flipping him over. He’s flat on his back, looking surprised. Looking more surprised than ever when I sink onto him. We’re both moaning, now. I couldn’t have imagined it like this. I think I’m groaning out his name, every one of his thrusts feeling better than the last. And then he pulls me down to kiss him. It’s almost too intense — I’m engulfed by him. It feels like he’s _everywhere_. But I can’t find any more coherency to not want all of him.

“Raphael,” he breathes out, mouth leaving mine. “I’m almost—”

I start to reach down to myself, but he notices and does it instead. His hand sends a jolt through my whole body, and only a few more seconds and I let go. He’s only another second later. His hands are holding me steady — bruising pressure on my hips, but I welcome it. It tethers me to reality.

We take a couple minutes to recover, and then I slide off him carefully. His hands are gentle on my face as I lie down next to him. For once he doesn’t say anything. I curl up next to him, my hand on his chest. His arm snakes around me, and I feel his soft breath against my hair. I reach and drag a blanket over us.

“I love you,” he murmurs. His words are soft, barely louder than his breathing. I wonder if it feels silly to say it out loud again, after all that. But the words fall over me, warm and soft and comforting.

-

I wake up and he’s not in bed. I don’t think much of it, especially when I see that it’s already past dark. I admittedly sleep more hours than most vampires do. I can hear him a couple rooms over, just moving around. I roll out of bed and rustle around in my duffel bag until I find a pair of jeans — _expensive_ jeans. Only hesitating a second, I grab a sweatshirt sitting on the top of his bag and pull it on, not bothering to zip it. There’s a symbol in the corner that looks vaguely familiar but that I certainly don’t recognize.

When I check my phone, there’s only one message from Lily — _no issues_ — and one from Magnus — _I heard you finally eloped with your fledgling_ — and I ignore both of them.

I follow the sound of him. As I walk through the house, I notice that all the windows have been opened, showing the early evening world. I pause just for a second, looking at the long lawn, the trees in the distance. It will never feel quite like _this_ ever again — quiet, secluded, like a world of just the two of us. Eventually other people will encroach on us, but I don’t think about it. And it isn’t a particularly worrisome thought.

I pause in the doorway of the room. He’s standing there without a shirt on. I take a full second to stare at the long planes of his back, the way I can see his muscles shift from the casual act of him reaching an arm out. It feels incongruous to apply the word to _Simon_ , but he really does look like a work of _art_ , even just standing there.

I breathe out a small sigh. He spins around — even though my footsteps _should_ have been enough to alert him to my presence, we’ll have to work on that. He grins, eyes trailing over me, and I guess he no longer feels the need to hide any of his feelings, because there’s still some burning lust on his face that makes it a little difficult to concentrate.

“Good morning,” he says, amusement coloring his tone. He’s standing in front of a cabinet full of DVD’s — _of course_ he would manage to find this room without any help.

I walk over to him, trying not to smile at the grin that’s spreading over his face. “Morning,” I say quietly.

“You know that’s from Star Trek, right?” he asks when I get close. He tugs at my sweatshirt, and I take another involuntary step towards him.

“What, do you mind me wearing it?”

“I like it when you wear my clothes,” he says, and it takes only a second for me to realize that he’s echoing something I said yesterday. He leans closer and kisses me, and I wrap one of my arms around his neck. After a minute — before things can get too heated again — I pull back. I tug the DVD out of his hand, seeing the word _Taken_ across the top. It takes me a second and then I start laughing, despite myself.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Come _on_ — have you _seen_ it?”

He looks at me with wide eyes full of mock-innocence, and I respond, “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“It’s more than _relevant_ — it’s on your _arm_!” he exclaims, still laughing.  

I never could have imagined it like this — warm and casual, with soulmarks being just a silly and maybe unconventional way that brought us together. And now it’s just another reference — nothing bitter or obnoxious or painful like those marks on my skin have always been. Now it’s nothing more than an inside joke.

I pull the movie away from him and start walking out of the room. He follows quickly, trying to grab my other hand, but I pull back. I look back at where he stopped, and he looks like a kicked puppy. “Go put on a shirt,” I tell him with a laugh, zipping up my own sweatshirt.

“I thought we were gonna lay around naked all day,” he says, raising one eyebrow at me, that easy grin returning just as quickly as it went.

“You wish.”

“You’d mind?” he asks — but there’s nothing serious about it, just light banter. There’s a twinkle in his eyes and he’s bouncing on his heels in a way that I’ve never seen before. It feels good to know that it’s because of _me_ ; I still think it’s odd that someone like me can inspire that sort of reaction in someone — especially someone like Simon — but it does feel like basking in warm sunlight, just seeing him like that.

“I wouldn’t _mind_ ,” I admit finally.

His grin turns into a smirk; that happiness in his eyes is tinged with lust. I lean forward and kiss him softly, but pull back abruptly and shove him towards the bedroom. “ _Go_ ,” I insist, and he just laughs, but he finally does so.

By the time he gets to the living room — only about ten seconds after I did — he’s straightening a pale blue shirt. He collapses onto the couch while I put the disc into the DVD player. “Have you really never seen it?” he asks me.

“Nope.”

“Well, let me tell you something,” he says as he fiddles with the remotes, getting the TV on the right input as the opening titles pop up. I sit down next to him and he presses play.  “Okay, so some people _don’t_ think it’s a good movie — and sure, if I’d known that it would be written on your skin for all _eternity_ , I obviously would’ve thought of a better reference. But you obviously can’t plan for these things, right? But I really honestly feel like there are a lot of merits to this movie that most people ignore. I mean, sure, no one is arguing that Liam Neeson is great — and who _would_ , let’s be honest — but—”

“Fledgling,” I interrupt, leaning over to him.

He pauses the movie and looks at me. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Please stop talking.”

He looks taken aback for a second before he bursts out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's the end! And just in time for season two.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone for reading, commenting, and/or interacting with me on social media — any and all of the above! I've had such a positive response from this fic, and it's really meant a lot. 
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta/best friend/podcast co-host Hannah for all her help! If you want to find our Shadowcasters podcast, we did all of season one (including a special wrap-up episode that was just out last week if you missed it) and we will be updating weekly for season two:  
> [iTunes](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shadowcasters/id1118677599?mt=2)  
> [Spreaker (If you aren't into iTunes)](https://www.spreaker.com/show/shadowcasterss-show)  
> [Tumblr](http://shadowcastershq.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shadowcastersHQ)
> 
> I control our Twitter, so please follow and interact with me! You can also send me anything on Tumblr
> 
> Thanks again!!
> 
> -Alison


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